Hold the Mirror Up to Nature
by MarrieSue
Summary: Post-Hogwarts. In the pursuit of a lead in his investigation, Harry was forced to go to an orgy, hosted by Marcus Flint. Who better to accompany him than a certain blonde? Under the surface, nothing was as it seemed. Full summary in Act 1. HP/DM slash.
1. Act 1 Nothing can come of nothing

****Disclaimer:** **Those wonderful characters are not mine. The Harry Potter universe (including all recognizable characters mentioned all institutions, situations, events and happenings) is copyrighted by J.K. Rowling and her corporate affiliates. The following work is fanfiction, which means that no commercial use is intended. Nor is any revenue being made from it or any website which it may be archived on.

****Notes:** **Originally had the idea when I was signing in for hd_hols. Anyway, I decided to run with it. Currently unbetaed and needs tweaking... Feedbacks are always appreciated!

****Summary:** **Harry's relationship had rather run its course; like a good stubborn Gryffindor, he was reluctant to acknowledge that despite he was the one who told Ginny they should spend some time apart. In the pursuit of a lead in his investigation, he was forced to go to an _orgy_, hosted by Marcus Flint. Who better to accompany him than a certain blonde? - Otherwise hopefully known as 'the seven days and nights that changed the course of Harry Potter's life'; under the surface, nothing was as it seemed.

**Warnings: **None for this chapter; unless the general concept of orgy offends you.

* * *

><p><strong>Hold the Mirror Up to Nature<strong>

_"Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so o'erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature: to show virtue her feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."_

_- Hamlet Act 3, scene 2, 17–24_

* * *

><p><strong>Act I Nothing can come of nothing<strong>

_"Nothing can come of nothing: speak again."_

_- King Lear (I, i, 92)_

'Ginny, it's not about that – '

'Tell me what this's about then – ' While speaking anxiously, her head wavered in green flames. 'I've already explained to you… We had no idea Helena's date was working for Rita Skeeter… and I didn't say those things about you – she twisted my words around in her article again… you know how she's like…'

'I know,' said Harry, fervently. He ran his fingers through the dark, unruly raven hair, trying to push it back but his attempts were failing miserably. Every now and then the Rita Skeeter alike would fill the gaps in newspaper or magazine with whatever stories featuring him they decided to write. It irritated him to no end, something never changed, not even six years after the war. He didn't blame Ginny for that stupid article. He honestly didn't…

'So why don't you believe me?' asked Ginny, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

'It's not that I don't believe you,' Harry heaved a sigh. 'I do. I really do. It's just – we're having some problems. Things between us aren't how they used to. We're – in different places right now. So I think we should spend some time apart, just to work things out – '

'You wanna spend time APART to work things out?' interrupted Ginny. 'Since when do people have to be apart to work things out? Besides, with the European Cup coming up and the training, I only get to see you once every month as it is. Sometimes even longer than that... You're in London and I'm always in different places. That's not _APART_ enough for you?'

Harry felt dreadful. This wasn't the first time they had been down this road. If there was a word to describe him and Ginny, uneventful certainly wouldn't be it. Their first big relationship row happened not long after they got back together. Ginny was mad at him for spending time with everyone but her, despite the soon-to-ended summer. She was going back to Hogwarts and he was starting _Auror_ training. Back then he was rather occupied by many things, in which case Ginny was understandably upset.

In a relationship, once one party admitted guilt to the other, the rest usually proceeded fast; he apologised, they then made up, and everybody was happy.

The second time around a sharp disagreement occurred when he took Luna to one of the Ministry's fundraising event for war orphans. At the time Ginny just signed up with Holyhead Harpies, and had been adjusting to the busy life of a professional Quidditch player. Luna was a good friend. It wasn't as if Harry had anything untoward in mind. Once he found out Ginny wasn't available on that day, he naturally assumed asking Luna to step in as his date wouldn't be a problem.

Ginny thought otherwise. According to her, Harry should've told her about the function before making the decision to take someone else, even though it wasn't an intentional mistake. Ginny was a feisty girl. That was one of the things Harry liked about her; she wasn't afraid to speak of her mind, to Harry or anyone. A heated exchange of views took place, with neither of them willing to back down at first. One minute Ginny was shouting, next minute she sat there sulking for saying unpleasant things to him.

After that they agreed that they should always be able to talk about their problems, in the events they had any. So they talked, through all their arguments, down to their two rescheduled wedding. Truthfully, Harry didn't know what had changed. He loved Ginny. But recently, actually it had been longer than what anyone could call 'recent'- they had been having disputes more often, over many things.

'Harry James Potter, look at me in the eye and tell me,' demanded Ginny in a solemn tone. 'Are you breaking off the engagement?'

'No, of course not,' drawled Harry, taking a moment to organise his words. 'Don't you see? I put my job before anything and so do you. We hardly ever get to spend time together. Our wedding has been put on held twice. And this business with the newspaper, like all those other things – so trivial, I know I shouldn't have cared but I do. It hasn't been great. Not for a while already. And we _both_ know it. So maybe it's time we figure out what we want – '

'I'm not the only one to blame here,' Harry opened his mouth to speak. Ginny ignored him. 'We agreed we'd do it when we're both ready… Last time it was me. But you know I had to. I couldn't leave the team when Jessie went on maternity leave. How about the first time? It was you who wanted to wait until you qualified.'

'Gin, love, I'm not saying it was your fault; in fact, it's not anyone's fault. I just think carry on wedding preparation might not be a good idea right now – ' His voice tailed away into silence. That he had reasons for this, he knew full well. Enough had been said; keep going on would only mean repeating himself. Now it was up to Ginny.

Ginny glared at him. Her pretty face hardened, her lips pressed together in a thin line. 'Fine,' hissed Ginny finally. 'Have it your way. I mean, it's not as if either one of us is bothered enough to make plans for the wedding anyway…'

'Gin, don't be like this…'

Her mouth had fallen slightly, and her glistening eyes seemed more pronounced on her face. Harry lowered his head; he had not wanted to upset Ginny, however, it would be unsustainable to continue as they were.

'… I just need to ask,' snapped Ginny, the sudden stiffness made him clench his fist. 'What if I meet someone during this…' She paused for a few second, then she said to him, '… this so called separation. In fact, you could meet someone, too. Is that something you're OK with?'

Harry felt his stomach lurch: the momentum he had been building to talk to her was going to go right out the window. Straightening his shoulder he exhaled the breath that he didn't know he was holding. Briefly he sensed a tiny sliver of sureness – that had not happened in a long time, not in this way.

'That's the chance I'm willing to take.'

Some words changed everything, once said out loud.

_xxx_

_Two months later _

'You want me to _WHAT_?'

His voice reverberated, bouncing back and forth between the walls of the Minister's office. Too stunned to move, Harry was feeling a mixture of awe and horror; in return, Kingsley, Robards and Percy looked back at him with equally pained expressions. Percy went all red within seconds, and the resemblance was remarkable: the colour on his face was almost the same as his hair, just like his younger brother and sister when they were agitated. No. It was not a good sign, but how could this be? Last time he checked, fool's day was April the first, which came and went six months ago.

'Come again,' Harry said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. 'I don't think I heard right.'

His immediate supervisor exchanged a hesitated glance with Kingsley, waited until the Minister nodded. Then he turned back to face Harry. 'Harry, you see,' said Robards, coughing to clear his throat. 'The case you've been working on before Neville resigned, that one of dark artefacts being transported to England… '

Prior to Neville's departure for Hogwarts, where his friend and former partner took over the position as Professor of Herbology, they were investigating a case of dark artefacts being brought into the country for sell, by whom they initially thought to be a ring of strugglers. A pattern had begun to emerge after some time. There was no criminal organisation; it was leading to one person who had the means and the methods to target and blackmail different individuals with non-apparent overlaps in their background into carrying the artefacts.

The carriers didn't even know what they were forced to transport in exchange for silence, let alone the identity of their blackmailer, despite they all had shady past that was worth blackmailing. Once an item was brought in, the carrier and the buyer would meet at a private party to change hands. Any monetary consideration would be paid in the form of travellers' drafts, ordered in Gringotts and sent to the Leaky Cauldron in advance. By the time Harry and Neville caught up with the money trail, all those gallons would've been withdrawn in a foreign country, where they had no jurisdiction.

Some of the artefacts were retrieved before the end of summer. But there wasn't much to be done; the Wizarding Law was very old, written at a time in which Dark Magic was largely tolerated and Dark Items were considered 'artful'. The Ministry had been trying to pass a new bill to appropriately class and control Dark Items for years. To do that, they'd first have to deal with the rather ambiguous legal definitions set in the same era.

'… We have reason to believe another artefact will be brought in shortly and passed to the buyer at a country house party. Since it's your case, we thought you should be there – '

'Hang on,' said Harry, shaking his head. 'What evidences do we have to suggest the artefact, whatever it is, will be taken to this party where people are having an…' Having difficulties to say the word aloud, he swallowed hard. Dear Merlin, this was madness! '_ORGY_?'

The effect was instantaneous. Kingsley and Robards stopped dead, their mouths opening and closing like goldfishes; Percy groaned, and from the look of him, he was about to burst into flames.

'Harry,' Kingsley managed a weak smile. 'I am given to understand that people go to this kind of parties to practice certain form of – liberation… you don't have to participate in their activities while you're there.'

And that was a real comfort?

For a minute or two none of them spoke. Harry grasped the arms of his chair, feeling their gaze on him. 'Is the lead concrete?' he said, finally.

'Well, a Madam Blanc came forward with the information. There were rumours going around in her establishment – apparently the seller will come to the party to deliver in person.'

'And this Madam Blanc… as in the owner of _Ivory_?' asked Harry.

'Yes.'

Brilliant, a brothel madam reported that a dark artefact was going to turn up at an _orgy_.

'If you don't want to go, it won't reflect poorly on you. But you know this case best. And we're being taunted.' Robards gritted out every sentence through his teeth. 'It's been said that this would be the last job. Since we came no closer to the person behind all these previously, this brute is fairly confident we can't catch him this time either.'

Harry had a very bad feeling about this; however, his curiosity was piqued. 'This party, what should I know about it?'

'Right, where was I?' Percy piped up, having seemly recovered. '… The party starts on next Monday. The event lasts seven days – hosted at Marcus Flint's country house. Attendants are mostly his business associates – a small, elusive group of people who share very – _specific_ interest. It's by invitation only and every guest must bring a companion…'

Robards' voice chimed in. 'Which is why Mr Shacklebolt and I agreed that you should go in disguise, under the pretence of a companion. It'll be easier for you to gather information that way, and given that this party is so close to date, seeking out corporative guests will be difficult and risky. It may jeopardise your cover and cost us the investigation. Weasley came up with the best plan. We do have someone currently employed by the Ministry, who has a personal connection with Marcus Flint. His presence at the party won't raise any suspicion…'

Harry blinked; Robards couldn't have meant –

'… As far as we can tell, those guests are esteemed members of the society,' Robards snorted, 'that's another way of saying this kinky lot are rich, influential, arrogant and annoying…'

'Gawain, it's a private function,' said Kingsley in a reproaching tone. 'Unless we've evidences indicating illegal activities, which we don't, what they do in their own time is their business.'

'Are we sure they're not doing anything illegal?' said Robards doubtfully.

'Well, I guess that's another thing Harry can observe and find out,' replied Kingsley offhandedly. 'Having unpleasant personality isn't a crime.'

'… Anyway, this person has close ties to all old families. In fact, he is from an old pureblood family. So he will fit in there seamlessly…'

If Harry didn't think the dilemma could get any worse, it just did. Because there was only one person fit the said criteria in the entire building of the Ministry.

'Wait, WAIT, you're not talking about Malfoy, are you?' asked Harry incredulously.

'I'm afraid so, Harry.'

'I can't go with Malfoy,' wheezed Harry. His head felt like it had been pounded repeatedly by bludgers. 'For one, he's not even an _Auror_. Besides, I can't work with him…'

'It has come to my attention that you and young Malfoy aren't exactly friends,' said Kingsley patiently. 'But I do expect certain level of professionalism from both of you. Believe me, Harry. This is for the best. It's a closed group. People who go there are either somehow connected or know each other. He can get Marcus Flint to cooperate. Mister Malfoy is a highly competent wizard. He'll be able to assist you with the investigation. More importantly he fully comprehends the need for everything to remain confidential – '

'I can't believe this,' Harry blundered. 'Can we not just… maybe he can take Susie… wouldn't he prefer to take a _girl_ to this party?'

'We suggested,' said Percy. 'He said "taking a girl with that figure would guarantee a failed investigation" and frankly I can't say I blame him…' It earned him glares from three of them. He held out his hands and added, 'his words, not mine.'

'Alright, alright, if we're done with discussing the appearance of my staff,' Robards waved a hand in his general direction. 'Harry, she's a second-year trainee. That single-handedly makes her unsuitable.'

He knew it was lame. It was his case, in all eventualities he should see it through, and Susie, a hard-working trainee, was one of the only two female staff in the _Auror_ Division. The other one was Robards' secretary: a sweet, motherly mid-aged lady would've made great friends with Molly. Regrettably the division didn't choose applicants based on their looks at recruitment, and considering how long this _orgy_ thing was going to be, many disguising methods they adopted would be difficult to administrate at that length of time.

'Okay. I'd do it.' Harry murmured, sighing in defeat. 'But I need to speak with Malfoy first. I want to get a grasp of what's what before I go there.'

'Percy will escort you to his office right now,' said Kingsley assuring. 'Just so you know… Mr. Malfoy has extensive knowledge of the Wizarding Law. His insights might really help you.'

Of course he did.

Harry cursed under his breath: better to get this over with before he started scowling.

_xxx_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Junior Undersecretary to the Minister_

Harry had never been to Malfoy's office before; occasionally he walked passed it, a pretty blonde girl sat behind a desk outside the office that had Malfoy's name on the door, looking busy with a nail file in her hand.

She jumped from her chair at the sight of them. 'Mr. Weasley, are you here to see Mr. Malfoy? And … Mr. Potter,' the girl burst into loud, high-pitched giggles. 'I'm Sicilia. I'm Mr. Malfoy's secretary – you see, I'm the secretary to the secretary…'

Percy rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to mutter 'Don't ask'.

'Oh, hi, Sicilia,' said Harry, with a polite smile.

'Should I make tea?' Sicilia asked excitedly.

'No. Mr Malfoy is expecting us.' Percy said flatly, knocking the door with a gold pledge. 'Just go back to whatever you were doing… Leave us.'

'Come in,' a muffled voice came through the door. Following Percy, Harry stepped into a small, neat office. Size-wise, Percy's office was easily twice as big; that was the office once belonged to Dolores Umbridge before she was tried and shipped off to Azkaban. Percy moved into that one when he was promoted to Senior Undersecretary after some much needed re-decoration.

Harry looked around. One wall was lined with glass-fronted cabinets, which revealed precisely aligned thick books and bounded volumes. On the other wall were two paintings, and a few chairs stacked up against the wall, next to a strange plant that had glossy, big, green leafs in the corner. Even with the smallness of the room, everything was well-kept. Behind a wooden desk, a man dropped the quill in his hand and looked up: there sat Draco Malfoy, short, platinum blonde hair brushed off his face, combed and parted to the side, sliver rimmed spectacles balanced on the end of a straight nose, and a pale face that seemed undoubtedly harsh even when it was expressionless – his old nemesis, snobby, condescending, one look at him made Harry's skin crawl…

'Good morning,' greeted Malfoy, directing his gaze at Percy.

'Morning,' said Percy, sounding more cheerful than he did minutes ago. 'I don't know how you put up with that half-witted girl. Can you imagine she just told Harry that ridiculous "I'm the secretary to the secretary" line? Honestly she has to stop saying that to everyone comes to the first floor – Harry, let's get seated first…'

Malfoy turned his head, as if he'd noticed Harry's existence for the first time. 'Oh, Potter,' he got up and pulled two chairs from the stack by the wall. Percy went over to help him, leaving Harry standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

'Take a seat, please,' said Malfoy, with overly elaborated casualness. 'I didn't hire her. It was Minchen's idea. Don't mind her – just think of her as an embellishment… at least she makes good tea.'

Percy gulped sharply.

'Embellishment? _Embellishment_? You're not saying Minchen has… put his hand in the jar, so to speak…'

'I can't confirm or deny anything I don't know of,' said Malfoy, smirking.

The smug smile that crept its way over the man's face was nauseatingly familiar: he'd seen it more times than he cared to count during and after his school years. Harry closed his eyes, picturing a world, in which hexing that stupid smile off Malfoy's face wouldn't land him months' worth of desk duty.

* * *

><p>Draco took out a bottle of Portnahaven, which he kept at the bottom drawer in his office for times like the present; if he was to survive this meeting with his sanity intact afterwards, he couldn't think of a more appropriate beverage to numb himself, preferably lots of it.<p>

'It's only eleven o'clock in the morning.' Potter eyed the three glasses disapprovingly.

Draco regarded the man in the chair; messy, uncontrollable black hair poking to all directions, criticising green eyes behind a pair of round glasses, dishevelled shirt under standard _Auror_ black robes, and black tie hanging loosely around his neck. For a quick second, Draco thought, nothing ever changed.

'I think the circumstance calls for it,' quipped Draco, who didn't stop pouring. 'You're welcome to join me.'

'Relax, Harry,' Weasley pushed a glass into his hand. 'I wouldn't be surprised Mr. Shacklebolt and Mr. Robarts are having a drink as we speak.'

'So – since we're here, let's get _this_ started, shall we?' Draco began, taking a long sip of Firewhisky. 'I've corresponded with Flint about the matter, and he – er – declares that what goes on in his country house, is simply the manifestation of… some aspects of life, expressing nothing but needs of people who wish to relieve themselves from social, and perhaps religious constraints, while the essence of the party may be contrary to – traditional morality – it is participated by consenting adults. The guests and their companions, during their stay, have a choice whether they'd like to take part in, what may be viewed as debauchery… It's not different from any other house parties in many ways, except at some point people will engage in – '

'That part I don't need to know,' said Weasley quickly. 'You two can talk this over in _details_ without me.'

Draco resisted the urge to sniff at that. Apart from being overbearing, which Draco would rather not speculate where he got that particular attribute from, Weasley wasn't a bad supervisor; there were a lot of people in the Ministry, all of whom would've gladly made his job impossible if they had been in Weasley's position.

Still, what was he doing here if he wanted to be spared of obscenity? Draco took a calming breath and let it slid. For a house praised nobleness and bravery, Gryffindors' abnormal sensitivities were always an eye-opener. He should've known: the concept of nobleness and bravery was not without its merit separately; together they made a tiresome combination, and their persistent tendency to dig their noses into things which even they knew they wouldn't like what was underneath, while the reason was beyond Draco, it was, however, not his primary concern at the moment. The centre of his problem was sitting right in front of him, holding a glass with hesitation, the very picture of tenacious righteousness and likely to be the most abnormally sensitive of them all –

'Malfoy, this is not a judgement over people's choice of… lifestyle.' Potter hung his head with a low sigh, fingers pressing his temple. 'I need to know what I should prepare and bring to the party…'

'Okay. Whatever _Auror_ stuff you'd need, of which I wouldn't know about – the important thing is, once you're there, stay close to me. If people say anything, or behave in any way you don't comprehend, ask me – or at least don't act like you don't understand… and you should have appropriate clothing…'

'I have clothes, and dress robes, too,' said Potter indignantly.

'Do you mean the same dress robes you wore to last year's Christmas Party and the year before that?' asked Draco, in the tone one would use to inquire other people's health.

'Yes. What's wrong with my robes?'

Perhaps Potter should rephrase his question to what was right with his robes.

'You need new attire. Your usual dress sense…' More like the lack of it, 'at that party would only draw unwanted attention. I've taken the liberty to book an appointment for you at Twilfitt and Tatting's, after work, six o'clock. They're fully booked. It wasn't easy to convince them to stay open after their normal hours. Anyway, it's done. It can't be delayed since they need time to make the clothes. So it's in everyone's best interest that you make this appointment…'

Potter's cheeks flushed. 'I don't think the division will let me expense that.'

The dry, somewhat defensive tone clearly said that Potter was offended by the implication. What was Draco supposed to do? Let Potter wear those hideous Muggle clothes he constantly had on whenever his snapshots appeared in _Daily_ _Prophet_? That would go down well.

'Look, I sympathise. But people who go to this party have certain dress code.' And ill-fitted Muggle clothes definitely weren't it.

'All right,' Weasley moved, picking up where Draco left off just in time. 'Harry will make that appointment. What else will he need?'

'I will arrange transportation for next Monday. Until then, that's all Potter needs.'

'All sorted then. I shall be on my way.' Weasley gestured at two of them before he got up. 'You two, _discuss_.'

The room temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees once Weasley was out of the door. Draco didn't speak for a few minutes. He traced the edge of his glass with the tip of his finger until Potter broke the silence.

'So what do I need to know about the party?'

The golden boy wouldn't know what was about to hit him. Even though Potter was hardly a boy at the age of twenty-five, the media still insisted on calling him those silly names. And the idiocy of hero worshipping never got old; everything Potter did, the general public followed.

'Well, the guests are Flint's associates, or their associates. They can either bring their spouses, or hire escorts for this event…'

'Escorts?'

'Yes. Courtesans, rent boys, but only the pricy ones from the best establishment…'

'Best establishment?'

Merlin's balls! Did he have to stop and explain every little thing?

'For instance, _Ivory_ – surely even you've heard of it,' snarled Draco.

He waited for the retort, but it did not come. Potter looked troubled. Avoiding Draco's wondering gaze he took a sip from his glass.

'As a matter of fact, I have. What I want to know is… what exactly do those people do there?'

'I've never been to one of Flint's parties under this variety. I'd assume it would be like any other _orgies_, you know, the usual stuff, twosomes, threesomes, moresomes, toys, bondage…' To Potter's credit, he hadn't choked on his drink yet. 'It's a weeklong event. An entire week of people having tea parties, luncheons, dinners… It may come as a surprise, they're no different than any other respectable, civilised human beings on the outside… although I can't speak for their mentality… In any case, probably at night, they'd fuck anyone they can get their hands on…'

'Okay, okay, I get the picture!' Potter said loudly, the blush on his cheeks deepened to an almost crimson colour. After a long pause, the boy wonder himself spoke, 'Why did you agree to do this, Malfoy? Won't people think it's odd you showing up with a man?'

'To answer your first question,' said Draco, with a smile of what he hoped to be enduring. 'I was asked by the Minister to help. So here I'm, trying to help. As to the latter, you have to be more specific. Why would people find the prospect of me going to the party with a man any less than ordinary?'

'Well, I don't know,' said Potter dully. 'Are you gay?'

So much for subtlety, to think that he hadn't exchanged two words with Potter in years, the man most definitely didn't hang about with his questions. Once again Draco thanked Merlin for small mercies; at least he had the foresight to have a glass of Firewhisky in his hand.

'I've had sex with men, and women,' Draco replied coolly, 'assuming that answers your question. I was brought up believing the word meant merriment or bright coloured.'

'Oh,' was the only sound came out of Potter.

The room fell into silence again. Draco swirled his glass in concentric circles, pasting a smile to his face but the warmth didn't touch the bottom of his eyes.

'Anything else you'd like to know now?'

'No, not for now,' Potter mumbled.

'Excellent. I'll see you at Twilfitt and Tatting's six o'clock sharp.'

'You're coming as well?' asked Potter, his eyes widened.

'I thought I'd save you time and trouble, unless you rather undertake the daunting task of choosing fabric and cut on your own.' Draco answered with a hawkish grin.

* * *

><p>Harry didn't loathe Mondays in general. Today was, however, a different matter. After his less than pleasing meeting with Malfoy, he spent the rest of day running around, trying to put things in some kind of order. Firstly he had to agree with Robards on a cover story, which he later fed to the people in his division, including his current partner, Roger, a first-year trainee. They were told that he was taking time off for personal reason next week; only Ron and Robards knew otherwise.<p>

He barely had time to deal with Ron's sparked outrage before going down to the Accounts Department to face a grumpy wizard who had a nickname of 'crazy old bat', which might have something to do with his ragged, dirty robes. No one would call him that in his hearing – that was because they'd end up in his office for expenses sooner or later. Personally Harry didn't have anything against him. He was such an ancient bigot, and there was a touch of comedy to it: you got to give it to the man – it couldn't be easy to be awful completely, thoroughly and consistently to everyone. Besides, he always gave in anyway, even with the epic rambling.

Harry sat and listened to his lengthy complaint, which was as dry as Billywig stings in Fizzing Whizzbees, and kept on going while he counted two hundred gallons one by one. All Harry had to do was to nod every once a while – yes, a note from the Head Auror wasn't the standard authorisation of staff expense; yes, it should've been an approved form of request sent via Interdepartmental Memo; yes, how was he supposed to account for this in the Annual Audit; and yes, those auditors were an absolute nightmare, whining about every little thing, whose entire purpose of existence was to make his life miserable, although it'd be impossible to imagine that he be more unpleasant.

Twilfitt and Tatting's was situated above a bookstore on one of the less popular off-roads. Harry had never been there since Madam Malkin's suited him just fine. Diagon Alley was quieting down when he got there, and he was getting late, so he darted down the pavement, with a bag of gold tight in his hand until he reached the door. The sign said 'Closed' but the light was on. A bell rang as Harry rushed through the door, racing upstairs.

'There you are.'

Only one room had its door open. Harry entered and found a beaming Malfoy sitting on a white sofa. He took a small step back, having seen the blonde man smiling like that in such close distance was perturbing. Determined not to be affected by the disconcerting feeling he was currently experiencing, Harry gave him a curt nod. The glass of bubbly in Malfoy's hand didn't escape his notice.

Truthfully, guilt had become his norm for the better part of the day, especially hindering in the hours he spent pretending that resources allocation was a matter of life and death. It wasn't his intention to sound judgemental, and he didn't even know how the conversation got awkward, which sex stroked Malfoy's fancy wasn't any of his business, that part he understood but he was going to an _orgy_ with the man for seven days. Shouldn't he find out that sort of thing before he went?

This was too soon after the earlier encounter. Normally he hardly ever bumped into Malfoy –

'Champagne?' asked Malfoy, gracefully.

What was he on about now?

'Sorry, I got caught up,' said Harry, watching him closely. 'I don't like champagne that much. But thanks anyway.'

'Never mind,' said Malfoy, swivelling on the sofa to look the other way.

Harry glanced around uneasily: it was a spacious room, very expansively decorated. That figured, since he doubted Malfoy had brought the champagne. Railings were installed onto the opposite walls, and to his surprise, not many clothes were on display. There was a low table in front of the sofa, with lots of what looked like catalogues on it. They weren't alone; a wizard and a witch stood not far, both of whom stared at Harry with open interest.

'As I was saying, Oscar,' said Malfoy in an overly sugary voice. 'My good friend, Mister Potter, needs a new wardrobe for an upcoming announcement – very important – regarding a private matter…'

Astonished, Harry puffed. What was Malfoy talking about? What upcoming important announcement? Malfoy shot him a warning glance and continued, '… I do realise it's rather short notice. But the time is of essence here. And I know you're the best in the trade. Never compromise the standards of your service no matter what – Mr. Potter would _really_ appreciate your timely assistance and consider it a personal favour. Wouldn't you say so, Harry?'

Harry nearly jumped. Out of all the bizarreness he came upon, hearing his given name slipping through Malfoy's mouth was one occurrence that was deadly close to the top of the chart. Making it worse, the blonde head turned as Malfoy gave him a dazzling smile. Before he said anything, the little old wizard hurried forward, grabbed his hands and shook erratically. 'Mr. Potter, it's – it's an honour,' the wizard muttered, voice trembling, 'please call me Oscar.'

'You should know that – ' said Malfoy, pointedly, 'only a handful of people get to call Mr Tatting Oscar.'

And Malfoy was one of those people. Harry felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Never a moment like right now that he fully understood why Ron still referred to Malfoy as 'the slimy git' years after the war.

'Sure… Oscar…' Harry said, trying not to let his irritation show. 'I am a medium in size. Does this help?'

Suddenly everyone in the room was looking at him. The slimy git laughed. 'Oscar, why don't you take Mr. Potter's measurements while Elaine and I sort out the rest?'

Then Harry was led to a huge fitting room, surrounded by mirrors, and was asked to remove his cloak and jumper. Standing in a thin shirt and trousers, Oscar Tatting, the tailor, instructed Harry to stretch his leg, hold out his arm, bend down, all sort of poses that he had no idea of the significance. Everytime Oscar pronounced a measurement, a quill moved elatedly, recording lengths, girths as such onto a parchment laid flat on a small, antique-styled table by the glass wall. An interesting device.

And no, customers should be addressed by their titles and surnames, so Harry was informed. Oscar was very polite, a little bit too courteous; in less than five minutes he had already expressed his gratitude twice: how much a privilege it was to him that his shop was chosen to make clothes for Harry's 'upcoming important announcement'. Grounding his teeth, Harry made a mental note. He needed to have a serious word with Malfoy as soon as they were done.

When Oscar apologised, asking him to sit on his knees and keep his back low, Harry couldn't keep quiet anymore.

'Mr. Potter, this is for causal trousers, in case you need to wear it for sports, like Quidditch.'

'Do people have trousers made especially for that?' asked Harry, shocked.

'Of course, well-fit clothes make the man,' replied Oscar wistfully. 'My father always said that.'

'Right,' said Harry softly. After a few more poses, he got bored. 'So – do Mr. Malfoy and his family always shop here?'

'Er – no, I mean, yes, begging your pardon, it was like that before the older Mr. Malfoy was… put away. After that there were Mr. Malfoy and his mother. Then the war happened. They stopped for a few years actually,' Oscar said, marching towards the small table. 'It's been a difficult war… hard on all of us… many of our clients were not doing so well… and the Malfoys, the Ministry came down on them really hard… of course, Mr. Malfoy would've have told you all about it…'

He wouldn't have, but the tailor didn't need to know that.

'…A lot of people say they had it coming, but I always thought Mr. Malfoy was a very aspiring young man… My wife – Elaine's particularly fond of his mother, Mrs. Malfoy's ever the proper lady, always treats us with kindness, not at all like the new money, of whom I don't wish to name…'

Harry raised an eyebrow; he bet Madam Malkin and the Malfoys' house elves would have something to say about it.

'The older Mr. Malfoy's a gentleman with certain status, perhaps not so easy going, but not uncommon amongst the gentlemen of his rank… He's the type of man, how can I put this delicately… if he steps into the shop and I'm sitting down, I'll stand up immediately …'

That Harry couldn't agree more.

'With his parents moved to France, Mr. Malfoy is all alone in England. My wife worries about him sometimes. Those passing years haven't been easy for him; I'm so glad – didn't see this coming though – you and Mr. Malfoy are friends…'

Neither did Harry.

'Mr. Potter,' said Elaine, when Harry came out from the fitting room. 'It's all settled for you. We just need your address for delivery. And you would need to come in again for a fitting…'

'Another fitting?' asked Harry. Should he be worried that Malfoy chose clothes for him?

'Oh, it won't take long,' explained her husband, 'it's just that some minor adjustments may need to be made. Half an hour would be sufficient. Would Thursday do, Mr. Potter?'

'Fine, I come by at lunchtime then.'

After he stood by the counter in the centre of the shop, writing down number twelve, Grimmauld Place on a form, he picked up the invoice Elaine just placed on the counter and read:

_Twilfitt and Tatting's_

_It is hereby agreed as follows:_

_1. 8 day robes;_

_2. 8 dress robes;_

_3. 1 winter cloak;_

_4. 8 under shirts;_

_5. 8 dress shirts;_

_6. 4 causal trousers;_

_7. 4 formal trousers;_

_8. 1 cashmere scarf;_

_9. 12 pairs of socks;_

_10. 12 undergarments;_

_11. 1 pair of leather gloves;_

_12. 1 pair of long boots;_

_13. 1 pair of short boots;_

_14. 1 house coat;_

_15. 4 sets of pyjama;_

_…._

Harry didn't bother to read on. His jaw dropped, turning his lips into an 'O' shape. Questions swirled inside his head; he wanted some answers and he wanted them now. Striding across the room to where Malfoy was sitting, the poncy twit had his head behind newspapers.

'What is this?' hissed Harry, holding out the invoice.

The papers dropped. Malfoy casted a puzzling look, 'Can't you see? Is there something wrong with your glasses?'

'Malfoy, I swear to god…' said Harry angrily, in a low threatening voice. 'Why on earth do I need this many clothes – enough to last someone for a lifetime…'

'I'd hardly call that enough,' Malfoy let out a quiet snort. 'Some basic essentials – that's all… Before you blow up, it's not the place to have this conversation. Wrap it up… you can yell as much as you want with a Silencing Charm later.'

Harry shot him a furious glance. He couldn't wait to hear what Malfoy had to say.

'So how much do I owe you?' asked Harry as he put down the bag of gold on the counter. Those clothes could easily be several times over what he had in that bag. He took out his wand, ready to sign the receipt with magic so they could draw funds from his Gringotts vault.

'Already taken care of,' said Elaine, flushing. 'It's not my place – if you don't mind me saying so, Mr. Potter, what a great friend you have… and generous, too. Mr. Malfoy insisted everything of the best quality – want you to look at your best for your announcement.'

In incredible trepidation, Harry look away – he needed a second; it took utmost restraints to stop him from wrapping his hands around Malfoy's pale neck and strangle him…

'Explain, _NOW_.' Harry said in a commanding tone, his arms folded across his chest after casting a strong Silencing Charm. 'Give me one GOOD reason why I shouldn't hex you all the way to Christmas.'

They were standing at the far end of the street, safely away from the view of Twilfitt and Tatting's massive glass window.

'Stop getting your knickers in a twist, Potter,' Malfoy shrugged. 'You may be unaware, but Flint's guests shop at Twilfitt and Tatting's, too. Do you really want to take the risk?'

'That I figured as much,' said Harry. 'But why do you have to tell such a lie? What important announcement could it be in case I'll have to tell them there is _NONE_?'

'Seriously, Potter,' said Malfoy, taking off his glasses to wipe off the invisible dust with a handkerchief, a _handkerchief_. Who used handkerchief in this day and age?

'… It doesn't matter to anyone what this announcement is. You get the clothes, Mr. and Mrs. Tatting get the business, and I get that part of job done. All's well that ends well.'

'I'm not comfortable with telling people lie for no reason,' Harry argued.

'Really? Given your line of work?' Light eyebrows shot up, grey eyes fixed on him.

'That has nothing to do it; besides, they're not suspects in my investigation… At lease I don't need information from them.'

'Since you're the _Auror_ here, I'm not going to point out how much people like to tattle when they visit their tailor. Anyhow, if you so need to feel better about it – I shouldn't have to counsel you on this – just tell them you are about to tie the knot with the Weasley girl or something, although how upcoming the announcement is – isn't up for discussion…'

'What?' Harry found himself shouting, as he dropped his arms to his sides with considerable force, having had just about enough. 'Leave Ginny OUT OF THIS. You don't know ANYTHING about my life… Just because Mr. Shacklebolt asked you to help, you don't get to poke your nose into where it doesn't belong…'

'Well, I'm glad that's established,' Malfoy said in an indifferent voice, his gaze unreadable behind half-closed eyelids. '… Remember to bring everything on Monday. It isn't done to wear the same clothes more than once at that party. I still have two more hours work to do in the office so if you'll excuse me – '

'Wait, how much are those clothes? I need to pay you back.' Harry called out.

'I won't miss the gallons. Think of it as a token of goodwill then – I owed you once… those might come in handy, in case you need to make that important announcement…'

A slight, odd smile played upon Malfoy's lips, he was looking at Harry but then his eyes drifted away, to somewhere far away. With a cracking sound he Disapparated, vanishing from Harry's sight.

Which left Harry feeling like an overset idiot.

_xxx_

Hermione and Ron had taken a nice, cosy house together in Upper Lydbrook over a year ago. It was close to the place that held many memories for three of them: sat within its own grounds adjacent to the brook that flew into the River Wye, with the western edge of the Forest of Dean right behind them. Their home had quickly become where Harry spent relaxing and joyful moments when he wanted to get out of London for a little while. There was so much to do; taking long walks in the forest, having a pint at the local pub – Ron never got used to the taste of beer, nevertheless it didn't bother him all that much, the screaming Muggle around the telly at sport event seemed to fascinate him, which made it well-worthy.

'The pasta's really good,' Harry complimented Hermione on the penne with tomato sauce and cheese she made. It was a little on the spicy side, and the penne was overcooked, but he couldn't say that to his friend, who cooked after a long day at work.

She smiled at him across the table, picking up her glass of Shiraz for a sip. 'How did the fitting go?'

'It was fine,' Harry rubbed his nose nervously. He and Ron both thought that they should keep the nature of the party to themselves. Best friend or not, it wasn't quite the thing to say to a girl.

'Did you manage to get the shop owners to tell you the price?' asked Hermione. Next to her, Ron lifted his head from the plate.

'Noooo,' Harry replied with annoyance. 'Apparently, although the clothes are made for me, Malfoy paid for them and left his magical signature. Therefore, they owe a duty to him, not me. I'm not a customer – not in contractual terms, they can't release that information to me.'

'I don't know why you go through all that trouble, mate,' said Ron, sitting up in his chair, '…the way I see it, take that two hundred gallons and spend on what you like, Malfoy doesn't want it, so don't give it to him…'

'Hey, that's not nice,' said Hermione shrilly, poking him in the rib.

'Ouch!' Ron protested, squirming away. 'Come on, this is Malfoy we're talking about – he said he wouldn't miss it.'

'That's beside the point,' said Hermione. 'I think Harry's doing the right thing. He can't just take all those stuff – not like that… it probably costs a fortune…'

Draco Malfoy was once a snide bully with self-esteems issues he richly deserved. School years were such a long time ago, they were young, brash and never saw eye to eye; when Harry looked back over the confrontations they had at Hogwarts, many of which he didn't behave any better. He would like to think of himself as someone who wasn't so easily provoke. But that opinion was constantly challenged when Malfoy was around.

Lost in thoughts, Harry ran his hand through his hair. A few days ago, he strolled down the empty street haphazardly, after Malfoy backed down from a fight and bolted. The frustration welled up inside of him was horrifying – what should have a good thing made him feel unsatisfied; he couldn't possibly miss quarrelling with Malfoy, for Merlin's sake, the git always brought out the worst of him. Maybe he should owl Robards first thing tomorrow morning. There must be some other ways to solve the case; the party was a terrible idea… no choice in hell it'd work.

'Harry, are you okay?' said a voice, drawing him back to where he was. 'You're pulling your hair again.'

He looked up and found his friends had stopped bickering. 'Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking about the case.'

'You know,' Ron exclaimed, and he had that look he always had on his face when he was struck by a sudden inspiration. 'It could've been Malfoy behind all those dark artefacts struggling business…'

'On what ground?' asked Hermione, bewildered.

'Oh, let's see, how about because he's Malfoy? God knows how many dark artefacts he has at home… Think about it, he gets involved in an investigation of his own crime, that way he makes sure it can't be solved.'

'Stop it, Ron! That's ludicrous.' Hermione said at once. 'You know his father turned over all their dark artefacts to the Ministry after the war.'

'I don't know, mate,' Harry had to agree with Hermione. 'It seems a bit of stretch.'

'Are you two honestly telling me you don't believe he's capable of something like this?' Ron bellowed. 'I mean, are we supposed to take their words for it? They could have those things stashed somewhere. They are Malfoys, they lie, cheat, manipulate – besides, the whole blackmailing thing reeks of Slytherin to me...'

'That doesn't mean he's the one behind it,' said Harry mildly. 'The evidences indicate someone who goes in and out the country frequently and spends lots of time ploughing into people's past… when would Malfoy have that kind of time?'

'Who knows what he does in his spare time?'

'Wait,' said Hermione, consideringly. 'When exactly was the last withdrawal made in Madrid? Wasn't it near the end of May?'

'Friday, twenty-eighth of May,' Harry replied, remembering all too well of the bank's reluctance to cooperate.

'He couldn't have done it,' said Hermione, confirmatively. 'He was in International Confederation of Wizards Conference that day. I was there, too. He gave a speech. It was all day long and there was dinner afterwards.'

'He could've gone and come back…' Ron insisted.

'Oh yeah, gone to Madrid and come back during a bathroom break without triggering the alerts on International Apparition?' Harry shook his head. 'Really, Ron, even Malfoy would think you give him far too much credit.'

'Why is everyone so eager to defend him?' said Ron gruffly.

'I'm not defending him… I just don't think it's him…'

'The war ended years ago,' said Hermione reasonably. 'We were children back then – all have done things we're not proud of… In the eyes of law, the Malfoys have paid for their war crimes.'

She sighed softly and continued, 'I hear he's done a lot in – enabling the communication between old families and the Ministry… I'm not saying he's an average decorous person, or even remotely friendly… but he does he job well, and Harry can use his help on the case…'

'First Percy… now you…' Ron squeaked, looking distressed. 'I don't believe this – my girlfriend starts to talk about that tosser like a silly girl – Harry, you know those ones from Improper Use of Magic Office…'

'I sound like nothing of the sort,' said Hermione impatiently, throwing dirty looks at Ron.

Harry tried to keep a blank face but felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Malfoy definitely had a fan base within the Ministry. Last Christmas Party when he accompanied Kingsley, who was greeting staff at every table – the _Auror_ Division was seated next to the Improper Use of Magic Use, some young girls behaved a little too – enthusiastic. Everyone laughed it off with good humour; Ron, not surprisingly, didn't see the joke.

''Mione, why don't you go put your feet up in the living room while Harry and I tidy up?' said Ron, standing up from the chair. His quick temper usually splattered like summer hailstones and soon melted away. The topic of Malfoy had been forgotten by the time they finished a whole container of apple crumble – Waitrose sold marvellous deserts. Harry got up to help him.

'All right,' said Hermione, taking her wine glass with her.

As soon as she left the kitchen, Ron made a gesture, signalling him to move closer. Harry collected the rest of dirty dishes, walked over, and stuck them in the sink.

'Are you excited about this party?' asked Ron.

'Yeah, thriving,' said Harry half-heartedly, as he leaned against a cupboard, opening a bottle of Butterbeer. 'Like a June bug in July.'

'Come on, Harry, if half of things Malfoy said about it were true, it must be some party, I can't believe you're not at least curious…' Ron roared, tapping his wand over the dishes.

Harry gave his friend a scandalised look. 'I am going there to work a case… and I'm still engaged to your sister… thank you very much!'

Straightening the table clothes Ron's movements stiffened. 'Oh… that…'

'Oh what?' asked Harry.

Ron inhaled deeply, swinging around to face him. 'You know how me and 'Mione said we were to stay out of – whatever problems you and Gin are having,' he said, his gaze fixated on the nearby wall. 'I'm gonna say this now and I'm gonna say it just once – Harry, you're my best mate. Even if – even if you and my sister – don't work out, nothing is gonna change that…'

'Ok…' Harry responded quietly; it was rather that he didn't know what to say. 'So you think – we won't work out?'

'No,' the redhead cried. 'Errrrr… I know it'd come out wrong… Look, if you can work things out, that's brilliant – but if it doesn't, we won't hold it against you… we know you've tried…'

'Who is _we_?' Harry parroted, sheepishly – his brain seemed to be struggling to absorb this piece of information.

Ron looked at him, eyes full of concern, mixed with embarrassment and unease. For a moment he almost thought Ron wouldn't tell him, but then his friend muttered, 'Mum… dad… Bill… Charlie… George… everybody, really…'

'Oh,' Harry breathed, feeling his spirits slip further. Surely Ron wasn't saying everyone expected him and Ginny to … break up? They were… figuring things out, that didn't necessarily lead to estrangement, did it?

'What I'm trying to say is,' said Ron, trying to make light of the conversation. 'You're family. That won't change… we're not taking sides… we just want you to be happy – both of you…'

'I need time – to – to process this…' said Harry slowly.

'All right,' said Ron. 'But if you have some fun at that party, I won't judge you.'

'Not the party thing again,' said Harry hoarsely. 'I don't know what to expect. It just sounds so… carnal…'

'Isn't that good?' said Ron, bracingly. 'Maybe this is exactly what you need. Meet some pretty girls there – might help to put things into perspectives… Archie didn't shut up for mouths when his squad did a sweep at _Ivory_… apparently those girls all wear corsets and really low robes…'

No one could accuse Ron of being a prude, as it seemed.

'I can't say I envy you though…' he heard Ron babbling on, 'going there with Malfoy, just be careful… don't touch _things_ he's touched, if you know what I mean…'

'What are you on about?'

'You were there when Seamus told us –' said Ron, trilled. 'The little shit shagged everything that moved at school when they all went back to do the last year. Were those girls on something? Who'd shag him in their right mind…'

'That's really…' What he wanted to say was that got nothing to do with him. But Ron, who was too far in his own world to have heard Harry, went off like a derailing train.

'… Who knows where his bits have been… It's gross… What do those girls see in him? He's MALFOY…'

Since he was going to an _orgy_, who knew where anybody's bits had been…

'Are you talking about Malfoy again?' Now came Hermione's voice; they turned, she was standing by the door with an empty glass in her hand.

'Nothing, just something Seamus said before,' said Ron, a bit too quickly.

'Ron was just saying that Malfoy was very busy with… girls at school, you know, the eighth year…'

Perhaps not just the girls, which part he didn't tell Ron and Hermione, Harry paused, however colourful Malfoy's sex life was, it really didn't concern him. Not sure how much Hermione had heard, he decided it'd be best to let her deal with Ron.

And she didn't disappoint him. While pouring, she shot Ron a side-glance with just enough malice to keep him on his toes. 'That's relevant… _how_?' She asked, looking disinterested.

'He's a pervert…' whispered Ron.

'For heaven's sake,' said Hermione fiercely. 'Don't tell me you actually believed everything Seamus said – who likes to spin a yarn… Malfoy wasn't doing anything what a lot of others weren't at the time – many people were getting drunk and being wild at school… that was just how things were right after the war… you'd be clapping and cheering if that was your mate…'

'The point is – he isn't my mate…' said Ron, exasperated.

Harry laughed; Hermione tried to look serious, but she broke into soft chuckles; after a few seconds, Ron gave up and joined them in raucous laughter.

He felt his heart warmed; no matter what happened, he owed it to his friends, who made his life wonderful, never a dull moment since he first met them when he was eleven years old. A life in a cupboard under aunt Petunia's staircase, as wretched as it was, and indeed the preparation was not greatly in vogue, became a page from the past on the day he learned he was a wizard.

_xxx_

Harry came out of the fireplace of number twelve, Grimmauld Place; the house was dark and quiet, Kreacher must have fallen asleep, most likely in the kitchen. Harry told him many times he could have the room on the first floor, which was much nicer and bigger, but the old elf never listened.

Lighting up the lamp, Harry didn't go to his bedroom straightway. Instead, he surveyed the pictures on the top of the fireplace: one of his parents, one of him, Ron, Hermione at school, one taken at the engagement party thrown to celebrate Ron and Hermione's engagement as well as his. In the picture, Ginny looked so pretty in a mint dress, four of them laughed so freely, faces radiated with happiness. He watched his picture-self wrapping an arm around Ginny's tiny waist; she gave him a bright smile in return, her eyes glowed with admiration and love.

He strived to recall how he felt at that precise, captured moment. The blissful joy, of which he thought that it would last a lifetime, went away as if it withered with age and fell apart over time, now he remembered its name only. He missed those days, everytime when he looked at Ginny, watching the joyous light flash into her eyes, and the vivid excitement of being in love and being loved.

Then he realised; how much he longed to rejoice, to be assured, to feel the sensation as of being thrilled.

At times he told himself perhaps things got complicated as they grew older, but Ron and Hermione were able to overcome their differences and build a life together. Why couldn't the same happen to him and Ginny? Harry sighed, sadness rushed over him. What was he going to do?

His breathing hitched, echoing in the empty room; there was no answer.

* * *

><p>To be continued...<p> 


	2. Act 2 Screw your courage

**Disclaimer**: As before.

**Chapter Summary**: Harry was having a very rough day, in a manner of speaking.

**Warnings**: Slash, language, sexual contents, oral sex, femslash scene, voyeurism, mentions of threesome and more-some.

**Author's notes**: First of all, this chapter hasn't been betaed yet. I have no idea why it took so long to write this. So apology for my slowness but it's done. The next order of business would be sending it to my lovely beta. Please read the warnings carefully and if any of those above make you uncomfortable, hit the 'close' button. There're some situations in this chapter I really struggled with, which I can't possibly explain without giving too much away. In a nutshell, please remember they're at an orgy while you read, and I tried very hard to make it still focus on them. 'Screwing your courage to the sticking place' is the full title, which sadly didn't fit the space on the drop down menu.

* * *

><p><strong>Hold the Mirror Up to Nature<strong>

"_Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so o'erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature: to show virtue her feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."_

_- Hamlet Act 3, scene 2, 17–24_

* * *

><p><strong>Act II Screw your courage to the sticking place<strong>

"_Macbeth:_

_If we should fail?_

_Lady Macbeth:_

_We fail?_

_But screw your courage to the sticking place,_

_And we'll not fail."_

_- Macbeth Act 1, scene 7, 59–61_

It began on a bleak, utterly uneventful November morning. Chilly breezes rushed along the nearly empty square of Grimmauld Place, a beam of sunlight broke through the now ever present clouds, and for a brief moment, the harsh wind seemed to have died down. The Muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place carried on with their lives as they always had; at this hour of the day there were little comings and goings, had the children gone to school and their parents left for work, even busybodies and petty tyrants had excused themselves from prying into their neighbours' affairs.

Nothing should be out of place on a dull, gray Monday, and in truth, nothing did stand out. A dark-haired young man was standing on the join between two houses, where the locals referred to as 'the council's mishaps in the numbering'. He watched every entrance to the square attentively, his back leaning against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen. Occasionally he started forwards, as if the thing of which he was expecting had turned up, only to fall back looking slightly on edge.

The long black cloak he had on looked like a period piece, as did the trunk on the ground by his feet, both evoking styles of another era, but even so, he appeared to blend into the background, to which point the cavil Londoners were passing him without a second glance. What was remarkable about an eccentrically dressed young person waiting for something to happen on the street in a rummy old place? The answer would be: NONE. Just another day in London!

Harry unfolded the wrinkled piece of what used to a purple paper aeroplane, scanning through quickly before it was disintegrated into ashes. The note arrived last Tuesday and all it said was:

_Pick you up at your residence on Monday morning, 10 o'clock._

_DM_

_P.S. I was told you didn't need your glasses on some occasions – this, perhaps, should be one of them._

At five minutes before ten he found himself unable to relax. With twitching fingers he loosened the exceedingly warm scarf around his neck. Harry glanced over the square again, left to right and all over. It was then an old-fashioned dark green car appeared at the end of the road. From the way it moved swiftly Harry recognised the vehicle immediately, it was one of the Ministry cars.

None of them said a single word. Malfoy moved further down towards the other side of the windows: his hair very fair, his face pensive, and the meagerness of his body emphasized by the apparel which was entirely too tailored for someone on Ministry salaries, the same as he looked every time their paths crossed on rare occasions. Harry sat still, both hands at his side, one palm clutching. The roomy comfort provided sufficient distance between them, leaving a gap wide enough to fit three more people.

He was stuck in a restless frame of mind, questions spinning in his head. All of a sudden he missed Neville. Roger was a good lad, young and desperately needed more training, but Malfoy… had his head propped against the seat back, now breathing steadily, his eyes closed. At once Harry was annoyed with himself, for getting rattled in what he thought to be an awkward silence, and all his futile effects to have a better start felt like pulling punches into a bag of cotton.

In the meantime, the car glided effortlessly through the traffic, he was riding away fast, from everything familiar, accompanied by someone who he never quite managed to get along with. Screwing his courage, he took a long and deep breath; after all, none of them were teenagers anymore, they'd figure out a way to tolerate each other, so he thought wishfully.

It didn't take long before they stopped at a dirt road, right slap-bang in the middle of nowhere. Malfoy got out of the car and motioned him to follow. While the driver was being dispersed, Harry looked over their whereabouts. There was no much to it; they were standing on an enormous field, dead grass brittle and brown under his foot.

Dubious, he then asked, 'where are we?'

'The field behind National Quidditch Stadium,' said Malfoy. 'Just wait for the transportation.'

'Oh, I see.'

Actually Harry assumed that they were going by Portkey. Baffled, he changed tactics. 'You've been to his house before, haven't you? Maybe I can drag my trunk with one hand…' He peered at Malfoy's luggage uncertainly. Apart from a stylish leather trunk, unabashedly shining from polishing, there was also a briefcase in equal superior condition. '…Or is there a fireplace nearby?' He added considering.

'Patience, Potter,' Malfoy gave him a meaningful look. 'It should be here any minute now.'

Something large, at first it resembled a huge, dark cloud – except it grew larger all the time, and, Harry could, indeed, make out the shape of giant wings – was hurling across the grey sky towards them, which propelled his recollection of a past event –

Malfoy whistled. The flying creatures howled back and on it went, booming through the air, haunting and thrilling, while casting gigantic black shades over every inch of ground they passed. Harry's ears were ringing – he understood why they had to wait in an empty field – a black carriage, not as big as the one owned by Beauxbatons, oversized all the same, pulled by a pair of dark blown winged horses, had come into his vision.

Maybe he should go back a few steps, or a long way, since the horse-drawn carriage hurtled lower and lower at a tremendous speed, and – looked like it was coming in for a crash landing – but then, the horses' massive hooves hit the ground, with so much force that Harry could feel the shudder from the contact. The overshadowing, angry looking animals stopped in a halt, followed by the carriage, touching down with a loud thump. To his amazement, the vast wheels didn't bounce upon the ground.

Malfoy marched toward the horses. In awe, Harry watched him patting one of them on its back; for who was at least six foot tall, he could barely touch the horseback with his arm straight. He then proceeded to open the carriage door, held his wand at a distance and shouted, '_Explicare_!' which subsequently, unfolded a set of dark steps.

'Well, Potter, let's load the luggage and get going,' said Malfoy, seemingly satisfied with the stunned expression on Harry's face.

* * *

><p>But it was Draco who was amused.<p>

Potter wandered inside the carriage, touching everything he could reach – like a young boy at his first visit to Honeydukes, and rid of hideous rounded spectacles – evidently he would lose them from time to time in case they became a liability to his assignment. The Sight-Correction Potions usually only worked for a matter of hours, less than a day, supposing Potter had brought enough supply to last seven days.

Without his trademark, the man who twice defeated Voldemort was scarcely recognisable, perhaps not that far off the mark, but its absence had easily knocked a few years off his age, readily reminding Draco an image of the celebrated wizard's school-year-self, with a significant improvement in clothes, although the scarf was disorderly again. In a moment's wisdom, Draco almost laughed: oh well, he did the best he could.

'It's… impressive,' muttered Potter, sinking deeper into a sofa next to the window, his stance no longer rigid.

'You mean the carriage,' said Draco, a hint of pride in his voice. 'Flint sells them, along with a lot of other things.'

'How much does one of those cost?' asked Potter, apparently full of lively interest.

Gryffindors! When were they going to learn it was tawdry to talk about money?

'… Starting from twenty thousand, bespoke only, depending on the specifications.'

'TWENTY THOUSAND GOLD GALLONS?'

Seeing that he was in a fairly pleasant mood, Draco didn't mention that the said amount of gallons was for a basic version – plain was the word – shoe box size, and stripped off all the niceties. Nor did Draco bring up that Flint wouldn't send his personal carriage for just about anyone. It was built with layers of Brazilian Wood, and reinforced with complex spellwork to keep the inside temperature at a bearable level in winter. Instead he threw a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans at Potter; there were beverage and a basket filled with sweets on a tiny table, prepared by Flint's house elf. Most of the time his old captain was a man of few words, whose attention rarely extended beyond the making of his precious broomsticks, but they understood each other, in a manner only Slytherins could.

'Yeah… and of course, you'd have to own at least one winged horse to begin with.' Draco concluded.

Marking their journey on the fly, the carriage skimmed over the face of earth with utmost steadiness. 'Where are we going?' asked Potter, tearing his gaze away from the window, amid all his unhinged excitement.

From his cloak pocket Draco removed a silver card. Potter walked over, held the card and read out a line:

_'It means what you are, wanting what you want and going after it without a – sens – od shame… People are slaves to rules.'_

It must be one of Higgs' verses; Flint wouldn't know literature or poetry even if he was hit over the head with it. Despite himself, Potter inhaled deeply. His quick, shallow breathing came to be apparent over the muffled sound of wind. Horrified? Or intrigued?

'On the other side,' Draco pointed out helpfully.

'Er – right,' said Potter, cottoning on. '_Marcus Flint requests the honour of your presence on Monday, twenty-second of November, at the Summer House, Redesdale, Northumberland_ – isn't Northumberland on the border of England and Scotland?'

Draco nodded.

'Oooh, the house's secluded?'

Again Draco nodded.

'Uh, Flint's well-off, isn't he?'

'I suppose you could say that,' said Draco vaguely, ignoring the silly humming.

'Erm – you're a partner of some sort, aren't you?'

He thought there was a point coming up.

'I'm one of his original investors,' said Draco, unfazed. 'The investment was made years ago, before I started working at the Ministry.'

Potter digested this information with an air of polite interest. Draco wasn't fooled for a minute. Nobody defeated the Dark Lord on dumb luck, although Potter often looked as if thinking hurt his brain. For years Draco complained petulantly that Potter and his entourage cheated and thwarted at every turn, and got rewarded for breaking rules because Dumbledore favoured Gryffindors by default; then he realised how juvenile it was, life was a bitch, either suck it up or walk away.

He turned his attention to his briefcase and took out a black wooden box. Removing the lid, Draco laid out its content, which effectively threw Potter off-balance and led to him asking in a wavering voice, 'what's this for? You… you want me to wear this?'

'One of the unspoken rules – if you wish to keep your identity undisclosed, mask at all times.'

'But why?' Green eyes widened, Potter cried out. 'I could just wear disguise.'

The next part might be more difficult.

'The attendants run in a very small circle and there's no short of curious lurkers… dying for a good gossip. If you wear disguise, people will want a full account of your life stories – who you're, what you do… The mask will stop them – they'd assume you make a living in certain profession – which, no doubt, they'll still be curious, but know better than to expect a straight answer.'

'So I'm supposed to be a rent boy?' said Potter, unimpressed.

He looked at Draco defiantly and Draco looked back at him.

'What do you want to tell them? We fell in love under the stars?' Draco grunted.

That had sealed the deal quicker than Draco expected. Obviously pretending to be paid for sex was more acceptable than the alternative as Draco Malfoy's lover. Not that Draco wanted one of those, man or women. People who had too much time on their hands and needed constant reassurance – none of which justified the pursuit… fancied themselves to be in love, in order to be loved. But love led to no real lasting sense of fulfilment – it was all encompassing, then the paradox came, for something so intangible, once it was lost, in its place was a lacuna, filled with emptiness, unbearable, inconsolable, taking one's breath away.

Some said love made one's life complete; those people were idiots who never loved anyone but themselves. Life functioned a whole lot better when one was specific with what one wanted in life. And love, one day he understood what _love_ was. On the same day he swore he would never look back.

After having given the box a look of profound disfavour, Potter placed the mask onto his face. Draco found it amongst the artwork, of all they had got left at the Manor. Since he first set eyes on it, he kept thinking that one of his ancestors might've worn this to a masquerade ball. It was no mere mask: Venetian style, off-white base decorated with a raised gold swirling design, antique sheet music inserts at the bottom, and finished with gold braid edging. There were black velvet ties on both sides, whereby Potter had twisted the simple task of tying a knot into a prolonged struggle.

'Turn around,' Draco shook his head, decided to give Potter a hand before he broke the damn thin ribbon.

When Potter turned to present the front of his face, the end result had popped a surprise of Draco's own. The mask fitted perfectly, covering from his forehead to the tip of his nose. A spread of gold paint above the almond-shaped slits complimented his eye colour… he looked down momentarily, those brilliantly bright emerald-green eyes flashed beneath black, long, curled eyelashes.

Draco was pained. It had been a while since his last release, which matter he ought to have taken care of before leaving London. Potter looked as if he'd become a different person, the way about him… something unveiled, suggestive in a wholly inappropriate nature that conveyed ambiguous messages, if they had met under different circumstances…

It dawned on Draco.

There were no '_Ifs'_ and '_buts'_ in life. His left forearm was a living proof. It was a doomed idea not because Harry Potter liked women. Draco happened to know plenty of those so-called 'straight' men who wouldn't mind screwing their own sex as long as it was wrapped under the carpet. He who played with fire would get burned, even if the fire came in the form of dark hair, green eyes and light, taut skin, and those red lips opened slightly, almost as if he was begging for a kiss…

Draco sighed. He wasn't thinking rationally; he never could when Potter was around, which was something he should've taken into consideration before he agreed to a fool's errand.

'Do people wear masks often?' asked Potter, brushing the mask with his fingers.

'Not really – ' Draco sat up, as he refused to be blindsided by a façade. 'It's not necessary. People only ever talk about this kind of parties within the circle – mutual assured destruction – can't leak any information without implicating themselves… One thing you should know though – they refer to someone who wears a mask and a first-timer as the _Innocent_…'

Potter's lips twirled in aversion. 'Is that so?'

Too bad he couldn't see it: the look of indignation behind that mask must be priceless. But then again, he had known Potter for so long, after such a length of time, he didn't require a map to get a glance at Potter's thoughts.

'I just don't want you to be unaware if it's brought up,' shrugged Draco, jumping to another subject. 'Do you have an alias in mind?'

'You seem to know awfully a lot about how _Aurors_ operate…' Wary green eyes watched intently, impelling scrutiny.

'Well, just enough and I have common sense,' said Draco scathingly.

'… I alternate between three, this time I'd go by Leo…'

Imagine that… Had anyone in the _Auror_ division heard of _double_ _entendre_? Of all the aliases in the world, Potter had to pick one that spoke volumes of risqué for his mission – a lion in the den; a name choice _this_ absurd commanded laughter and disdain. And he was able to use it from one investigation to another and never get caught? Draco didn't comment; some information should be treated by silencing, not simulating.

'… I don't need a last name, do I? Given my profession…' Potter said in a small, restrained voice.

'No, you don't.' If there was sympathy in Draco's eyes, Potter wouldn't know, but wits, he needed plenty for where they were going.

As they headed further north, the countryside had gradually opened out to rolling farmland, they could've been anywhere in the heart of England, and the weather was not on their side. Dark clouds loomed over the sky, pressing down on their carriage. They'd better be somewhere in-between Yorkshire and Northumberland; winged horses weren't too taken with thunder and lightning, which frightened them even on solid ground.

Luckily it was nothing but drizzle at the moment. Draco moved away from the window; they might just get there before it worsened. It already felt like old times, sitting there with Potter's unwavering gaze on him, and then Draco shook off his thoughts, raised his eyes and responded in kind. Potter opened a bag of sweets, breaking away as he started talking to Draco about the excellence of their ride.

'… How is it possible? Wizards can't change the temperature in the air, like we can't stop the rain or snow from falling…'

'It's not about changing air's temperature,' said Draco, knocking on a nearby wall.

'Oh, Flint has found a way to heat the carriage…' Potter spoke in hesitation, 'but with what? Like the spells to keep the Ice Box cool?'

'Not exactly…' said Draco tersely. 'Lanshion's Box keeps everything in the box at certain temperature. With the correct spells, a particular kind of stone can radiate heat when it's cold enough – too expansive anyway. It's not commercially viable.'

'How many carriages has Flint built like this?'

'Not many, three or four, I think.'

'Ah… he could try to make broomsticks with that though…' said Potter thickly, through a mouthful of sweets.

'Hmmm, let's see…' said Draco, in a mock-serious deadpan manner. 'There's someone – halfway in the air, with a hot broomstick between his legs – don't think that's a good idea…'

It was rather obvious that Potter had been scandalised, as his ears had turned red. 'That's not what I meant,' he blurted.

'Of course not,' Draco scoffed absentmindedly.

Some concerns couldn't be proclaimed without being taken the wrong way: while readers of _Witch_ _Weekly_ might find the constant blushing adorable, his self-consciousness would make him extremely vulnerable in Flint's midst. Potter was hardly a sacrifice lamb thrown to the wolves. A vast majority of the guests were simply repressed individuals looking for a good time, but they sure as hell could smell who didn't belong in such gatherings from a mile away. He'd have to keep Potter on a close watch, packed and delivered back to London in one piece the coming Monday. Draco felt miserable; it was going to be a long seven days.

The rain began falling heavily from the gloomy sky. Just in the nick of time, the carriage was hurtling lower again. Draco sighed in relief. Potter, who was looking out the window, yelled in shock. 'BLOODY HELL, IT'S NOT A HOUSE… IT'S A CASTEL!'

'Yeah, it belonged to one of the old families,' said Draco collectedly. 'Eventually they died out… the house fell into the hands of Muggle at some point…' Now that was truly distasteful.

'Anyway, to cut the long story short, a few years back, Flint bought it at a stupidly low price.'

'Flint bought this place from Muggles?'

'Well, they thought the house was inhabitable. Some rumours about Muggle being caught in a trap or other such gibberish. They think the place is haunted… couldn't wait to be rid of it.'

* * *

><p>He was going to an orgy at a haunted house.<p>

Climbing down from the carriage, Harry shivered in the cold. The house was a miniature of Windsor Castle – he went there once with Ginny, Hermione and Ron on a bright sunny day – smaller in size but breathtakingly stood on a low hill, surrounded by trees. For a place of where people came to indulge in unspeakable things, it looked dark and completely derelict, either through unattended damage, or through deliberate neglect. The stone steps were soggy with water, which a thin layer of green moss held; alongside the high, dark walls vines crept up like a spider's web.

He turned around, peered ahead and saw Malfoy standing next to the horses on a deserted wide driveway, in heaps coated with leaves. Running his hand over the one on the left, the part that was reachable, Malfoy said loudly, 'Mira, go back to the stable. I will come to see you as soon as I can.'

Mira, the horse, lowered its enormous head, rolling the large, fearsome brown eyes at Harry. He had just been discarded by a horse. Clearly unhappy, it tapped a front hoof, bigger than a dinner plate front hoof, on the ground, hopping off wet leaves. 'Mira – ' Malfoy began in a no-nonsense tone.

At the same time the door at the top of the steps swung open and a man stormed out. 'Malfoy, you dog, I thought you'd never arrive.'

Harry recognised this person – Marcus Flint, whose appearance didn't change that much from ten years ago – tall, muscular, and looked like he might have troll blood in him. Despite being a highly successful entrepreneur in the Wizarding World, Flint was a very private man. Harry didn't know how he was able to keep himself out of press, but the closest the media ever got was a few snapshots of Flint with normal-sized teeth.

'Really? Is this how you intend to greet guests?' Malfoy snorted in disgust. 'Two o'clock in the afternoon you're still in your dressing gown?'

'It's my house,' he heard Flint sternly. 'I wear what I want. GET OVER IT.'

Flint had shirt and trousers under the long dark blue woollen jacket, the stubble grazing his jaw could have done with attention, but to be fair, he looked no worse than anyone in his division when caught up in a case. Following the line of thought Harry suddenly remembered the obscene amount of nice, wearable clothes that took three owls to deliver, now all crammed into his trunk, and he had yet to convince Malfoy accepting his gallons, however, on the bright side, at least he could put the chilling remembrance of Horace Slughorn's velvet dressing down and silk pyjamas to rest.

'Suit yourself. Less yapping… Help me get them into the stable.' Malfoy said to Flint, unaffected by the hostility.

Hands in pockets, Flint gawked all over Harry for a few seconds and then gave Malfoy an incredulous look.

'Go inside,' Malfoy turned toward Harry, raising his voice in the wailing wind. 'Don't stand in rain. The house elves will deal with luggage.'

As Harry hastily mounted the stone steps, he felt a tug between annoyance and nervousness. He wasn't used to being so… useless, like he was ineffectual, an invalid, someone who knew so little about anything. It was going to get worse: wearing a showy mask everyday in a house swarmed by people, of whom he didn't know but two former Slytherins. Harry looked at the door, where the old paint fell off in long peels, wondering if he should Apparate and never come back.

With hesitation he reached out and pushed the screaking door, stepping into a strange and mysterious land.

_xxx_

Inside was a different world. Golden light gleamed in the corridor – the glow from the countless lamps on the wall; ivory marble tiles stretched all the way to a reception area, bright and warm, soothing to his mind. Harry sat on a leather sofa, staring blankly into a huge fireplace. Merlin! His first assignment wasn't this unnerving. He could do this. Just a damn party –

Before long fast footsteps approached, then came Malfoy, blonde hair darkened and plastered to his head, steam smeared his glasses, with his briefcase in one hand. Behind him a grumpy looking Flint gave Harry a quick nod.

'Right, let's go to my study…' said Flint, leading the way.

It was a lovely country home, Harry thought as they were passing through a center hall. A candle chandelier hung high from the round ceiling, over two long tables covered in linen table clothes. Everywhere flowers were budding into blossom, on tables, on walls. Harry was no expert in gardening, but he could tell that those beautifully arranged flowers were blooming in the wrong season.

Into the next room there stood a grand 'Y' shaped staircase and its runner of dust-red carpet on the dark wooden stairs. As they turned a corner, walking into a hallway on the side, Harry saw several doors on each wall, all painted dark brown, each with a shining gold knob.

Perhaps there was hope; so far everything seemed so proper, not at all twisted.

That thought vanished when Flint opened one of the doors. In a spacious room, paper, parchments with sketches, or cramped spikes and loops, scattered all over, against walls there were cabinets full of miniature broomsticks; it was difficult to be sure since every inch of the surface was concealed under _something_.

Malfoy let out an angry groan.

What had happened in here?

'A bunch of block-headed Muggles somehow – burgled your study again?' said Malfoy moodily. 'How'd you know what was missing? Oh wait, they couldn't have. You have _Repello_ _Muggletum_… What is it? Flying Spell gone wrong?'

'Bugger off,' snapped Flint, burying his head in piles of unknown objects on an incredibly messy table. 'Ah huh, here it's,' he burst out savagely, pulling cigarettes out of a small silver case, which he then offered to them but they turned down.

'Hmmm, feel free to sit down,' said the puffing man, in a rough growl voice.

He might as well have poured water into hot oil.

'Where? On the windowpane?' sneered Malfoy, slamming his briefcase onto a lonely, displaced chair. He strode forward, stumping over the clutters on the floor. The state of this room must have offended him greatly, because his jaw worked as if he was chewing, then he said, 'You knew I was coming! If you can't be bothered to have a house elf tidy up FOR ONCE, at least you should have the decency NOT TO ASK people to come in here!'

'What's wrong with my study?' asked Flint, sounding as though he really didn't know.

'WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG?' bellowed Malfoy, as he smashed his fist down on the table, incidentally hitting into scraps of paper, which started floating around and fell out across the floor, now even more irritated, he glowered at Flint menacingly.

Harry had an urge to laugh, with all due respect to such of the present company as it happened, although he very much doubted that they started the fight to alleviate his feeling of deracination. Up until this point, he had envisioned Flint's guests, including Flint himself, to be an unpleasant bunch obsessed with debauchery, but now they were just people, who could be as real and bizarre as the next person he had interviewed. Besides, everyone had fantasies, the difference being – those people had made the conscious decision to live in theirs to a full extent. He did undercover and stakeout before, from which he learned: the practical thing was to stick to what was important – he was there to do his job.

'Damn, you're always a terror on empty stomach,' Flint tipped up his chin, turning to Harry.

'Want some food first, Potter? I'd hate to leave the Ministry thinking my hospitality is lacking.'

'Yeah, sure,' said Harry, with a very civil smile. He had no reason to be on bad terms with the host; it might not have been voluntary but Flint had agreed to let him stay, for that he should be thankful.

'I'm not eating in here!' snarled Malfoy.

'You know what?' sputtered Flint, leaning forward over the desk. 'If you'd settle down and give me a sodding minute, I'll give Potter the map – then you can do as you damn well please.'

Fuming, he started pushing random bits and bobs across the table. A half-smoked cigarette carried on burning in an ashtray, where he had left it, dangerously close to a stack of parchment. 'Maybe you should move the ashtray first?' asked Harry hesitantly.

'That's enough,' said Malfoy, putting out the cigarette forcefully. 'Why don't you Summon it?'

'Smart arse…' cursed Flint, withdrawing his wand. Several scrolls zoomed out from different directions, sped right into his open hand, and then, having found what he was looking for, handed one of them to Harry. '…Here's the house map – I inherited when I bought the place. It lists all the back passages and peepholes.'

Peepholes?

'It's an old house,' said Malfoy, pointedly.

'Whatever your business is, whatever you're here to find, I don't give a flying monkey…' said Flint sulkily, lighting up another cigarette.

Under need-to-know restrictions, Harry was given access to the information necessary to solve the case. The same principles that would be applicable to other involved parties were not always strictly followed by law enforcement officers since it was often difficult to specify the 'need'.

'Well, I suppose I could – ' Harry opened his mouth, still deliberating on how much he should share with Flint and Malfoy but Flint cut him off impatiently. 'Eh, eh, eh… don't tell me! I don't wanna know! Everyone will be at dinner tonight. You'll see who're here. If you have questions, ask Malfoy. Make sure one thing though – I don't want an army of Aurors banging on my door…'

White smoke did little to soften the grimace on Flint's face. Harry didn't see the point to correct a figure of speech; that was to say, even if the entire division decided to turn up, they'd round up nowhere near 'an army'. Flint started again after a puff, although this time his tone was shockingly courteous. 'I don't like the situation but here we're. So if you have to have them come in, be discreet about it. I'll even say please.'

There was only one thing left to say. 'All right,' said Harry sincerely, because Flint really wasn't asking for much. 'Thank you for your cooperation,' he added before heading out, as smooth as he could be.

Waving his free hand fiercely, Flint gestured their dismissal. The Sorting Hat couldn't be more wrong; Slytherins were an odd lot, he could never understand them.

_xxx_

Yet despite what appeared to be a less than inviting attitude, Flint had put them in the Master Suite, as the ancient map showed there was a door in the sitting room, leading to the secret passages. The only other entrance was hidden in Flint's study, which was probably the reason they were assigned the suite in the first place. Harry wandered slowly, finding it difficult to comprehend the degree of materialistic fineness. It was so much to take in at once… He'd only ever been to one house as luxurious as this – the Malfoy Manor, against his freewill – now that was an unpleasant memory altogether.

Their luggage had already been brought to the bedroom, waiting to be unpacked. Malfoy asked a stuttering house elf with the name 'Tilly', to bring some quick bites because, he then explained to Harry, 'dinners usually start early to make headway for later'.

The steak sandwich was delicious, and rather comforting to someone who was having a trying day. While they ate around an antique styled table, even through the window, Harry could hear the exhilarating sound of trees whipping in the vicious wind.

'… Er, for what's worth,' he said earnestly, putting down his fork and knife. 'I didn't realise my stay was making – some much of a hassle… I don't expect Flint to give up his suite – it's his house, so if there's another way…'

'Don't worry about it,' said Malfoy shortly, as he got up and walked away. 'He mostly stays in the Mistress Suite, it's exactly the same layout… he's not fussed.'

'The Mistress Suite?' repeated Harry. Initially he thought the map had the wrong name, why would a couple need more room on top of one extravagant suite?

'It's an old house,' Malfoy's voice came from the bedroom next door. He kept emphasising the age of the house as if it should mean something –

* * *

><p>'Tilly! TILLY!'<p>

With a popping sound, the tiny creature wearing an apron made from tea-towel appeared, with short legs stuck out, her bat-like long ears lowered as she squeaked. 'Sir, yo-you is as-asking for Tilly?'

'Yeah, see to that table outside,' said Draco, pointing at a bottle of spirit he had put down.

'Bring this to your master's suite and here…' he took out a gold gallon from his pocket and indicated to Tilly-the-elf, 'it's for you.'

'Noooooooo, Sir,' she shrilled, her enormous brown eyes filled with tears. The quivering squeak voice was so loud that Draco's first instinct was to cover his ears. Potter emerged from the door, titling his head to find out what had happened. Between high pitched sobs, the elf managed to get out, 'Tilly is a go-good elf! Go-Good elf is not pa-paid, Sir!'

'It's ok,' said Draco, shoving the coin into her small hand. At this point he would've done anything lest he be going deaf. 'I said you could have it. You master won't be mad.'

Tilly finally wiped off tears and went on merry way, after Potter, who prone to know a thing or two about dealing with temperamental house elves, put his foot down, threatening never to summon again if she didn't accept payment.

'Dear me, I need a drink,' said Draco tiredly, helping himself to the crystal decanter. 'Er, you won't see Flint most of time – he'll be at meals but that's it. Don't mind him. He's a little cross – doesn't like flatfoot… or authoritative figures in general, and you remind him why we have to pay our house elves now, even though it isn't your doing…'

'It's not like he can't afford it!' said Potter hotly.

'That's not the point,' said Draco airily, giving him a glass of Firewhisky. 'People resent changes. Even Granger knows breaking traditions takes time…'

'But you helped her to submit the proposal,' interjected Potter.

Draco stared at him. As it turned out, Potter had as least one attribute in common with the members of Wizengamot, the infinite ability to pick over the least important details. In the general scale of things, Grange mattered to him as much as any know-it-all who had misguided and cliché senses of gregariousness. If Potter thought it was an act of kindness, he was unduly mistaken.

'The Minister submitted the proposal,' said Draco slowly, letting it get through Potter's head, hopefully once for all. 'I presented it in front of Wizengamot at his request – a part of my job, and I think we should go back to the problem at hand,' he rushed on before Potter could interrupt again, 'as I was saying, Flint doesn't care what people do here, as long as they don't cause trouble – the kind brings the law enforcement, other than that, he mostly stay shut in that pigsty he calls study or his suite…'

'Basically, everything is well and good if nobody gets caught?' said Potter, frowning.

'So often the way of life, such as it is.' Funny that he was telling Potter… Draco pitched the bridge of his nose hard, feeling a headache coming on. 'Look, he'd like to stay on the right side of the law, how could he possibly foresee – that one of his associates or their companion decided to bring Dark Artefact to his party? He doesn't have much incentive to help you but he did what he could anyway, so maybe you can excuse his lack of enthusiasm to have his house and his life exposed to unwanted attention and concentrate on other things…'

'I'm grateful!' said Potter stoutly.

'Save it, Potter. He doesn't need your thanks.'

_He just wanted you out of here._

'I've noticed,' said Potter gingerly, though he didn't press on. 'You said the house was old – ' he began after several minutes, 'is it common for old houses to have peepholes?'

'Can't say it's common,' Draco told him, 'but I dare say someone once lived here must like to watch, that much is for sure… You can take off your mask when there is no one around to see.'

'Right,' said Potter, now devoid of the mask, his cheeks suspiciously pink. 'So people who got off on spying lived here before?'

'Probably,' Draco finished his drink; he wondered if it was disapproval he'd detected in Potter's voice, whether the disapproval was of such behaviour or the lifestyle, every which way the prey of some ferocious wit seemed ill-fitting for virtuous war heroes.

'Do you want to tell me about your case before dinner?' He asked evasively.

'All right,' Potter moved to his trunk and located a file, a very thin file. Frankly, Draco was too drained to care: the extent to which he was entrusted was entirely up to Potter. Holding the file up to his face, he plopped into the bed, a mass of plump pillows strewn across the head, mattress thick and firm beneath his tense body, all of what he liked, and the room was delightfully warm, he might doze off if he wasn't careful.

Not long after a sharp gasp came. Peering up in that direction, Draco caught a glimpse of Potter springing away from the wardrobe as though he couldn't get his head out of there fast enough.

'Merlin's knickers!' he exclaimed. 'Who needs this many toys…'

'Oh, you found the goody box, I assume?' Draco mused.

'The goody box?' said Potter, catching his breath.

'A thoughtful gesture – ensuring guests have a satisfactory stay.'

'Hidden in the closest?' stammered Potter, unconvinced.

'Rather apt location, don't you think?' said Draco, pulling a face of feigned innocence. 'Something not everyone needs to see stashed away.'

Draco lifted his head to another side, trying to hide the smirk on his face. One might say that it was poetic in its way. That he who had faced the greatest evil was resolved to pacing about the room aimlessly at the sight of mere sex toys. Was this Potter doing his job, by wearing his emotion for all to see?

Whatever hole Potter was digging into, he wasn't going to stay confounded for long, and then, as quickly as a wink, he crossed the room and stopped at the bedpost. 'Can I ask you a question?'

'You just did,' said Draco silkily. 'But do go on.'

Potter fidgeted as he caught the curtain ropes, throwing the end around. Interesting, if he had to engage in distracting activities, it must be something unsavoury.

'Do you enjoy public sex?'

Once Potter had said it, he went furiously red in the face. 'No – that came out wrong. I'm trying to understand why people would come all the way out there for…' In one breath he quickly explained but was at a loss again.

'Libidinous _orgies_?' offered Draco, who wasn't particularly affronted, although those words coming out of Potter's mouth was weirder than the question itself.

'_This_…' Potter continued, ignoring the interposition. 'Anyway, it just seemed a lot of trouble for sex.'

'They came to get away, I imagine,' said Draco, letting his charge in on some well-timed enlightenment. 'Maybe their wives can't satisfy them. Maybe it's the freedom – the possibility to do what they want without judgements. If you think about it, how is going to an orgy any different from going to, let's say, a brothel, or meeting people for sex? Some people need boundaries, like they tell themselves that they'd only take tea at three o'clock in the afternoon, but other people rather not commit to have sex with the same person until the day they die – it's all a matter of perception. There're always things that the others agree to the silent disagree… I guess it is the nature of men and _orgies_ serve that purpose, hitting two bludgers with one bat, you get to posture in front of other men and you get sex. What more to ask for?'

'You've been to one before?' asked Potter, looking at anywhere but Draco.

'A few, actually… that sort of days are behind me,' said Draco, in a voice only a little above whisper. 'And before you ask why, I have a job. You can either be a former death eater or an orgy-goer. Nobody gets away with being both.'

'Do you want to?' Potter, ever the persistent Gryffindor, continued to enquire.

'No, it suited certain needs at the time, which no longer apply.'

Hence another question arose, for what it might be: did Potter want to? Draco didn't say anything, as action usually spoke louder than words.

When Potter talked about his job, Draco sensed the reek of a new confidence; his eyes glittered, voice unexpectedly low and rich. '… Dark Artefact cases are usually quite straightforward, and suspects are, more often than not, very predictable. In most cases, we get a report when someone come into possession or get hurt, and after confirmation, we trace the item to where it was bought or who made it and make the appropriate arrest. But this case is all backwards – we only discovered by chance…'

'It's here in your file, a guest was caught with a Dark Item on him at a house party when MLEP responded to a dispute…' said Draco, reading up the corresponding paragraph. MLEP, short for the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, was tasked with the dealing of general magical crimes.

'Yeah, a guest had too much to drink,' said Potter. 'MLEP was called to the scene to break a fight. When they were questioned, one person looked shifty so Aaron rounded on him… He, ah, confessed. After that, the case was passed onto us.'

'Other subjects are not as forthcoming, I take it?'

'No, Tom feels bad about having – somehow facilitated it – it's not his fault. We checked. No signs of irregular income. He even went under Veritaserum voluntarily. Bank drafts were sent to his inn, which can be picked up by anyone. He plays no part in it except being used as a post box. But we can't go open all of his incoming mails. The council doesn't allow it – '

'They won't consent unless you have reasonable and probable cause. Snooping on think threads is hardly plausible. '

'Right now we're only interested in information, as to the identity of the seller and who had made those artefacts,' Potter paused before saying, 'this's an odd one. It doesn't make much sense.'

'While that may be true,' said Draco level-headedly, 'you do have a bigger problem than a few inconsistencies. The Modern Law is statutory. It states that a crime is only committed when there is _noxa_ _corporum_ – bodily harm. You can't prosecute anyone for trafficking, making or possessing Dark Items, not any more than if people simply practise Dark Arts at home, without hurting anyone in the process. _Legal Guidelines for the Manufacture of Magical Apparatus_ are called guidelines for a reason – legally non-binding, besides, the monetary penalty is – Pugh, neglectable. Was anyone harmed in your case, I mean, physically, during the commission?'

Potter fell silent.

'Although your suspect has committed extortion, conspiracy to commit extortion, forgery, and several other charges in the act of disguising the source of illicit funds… I could go on but the thing is, those crimes don't fall under your purview. You don't have much of a case, not in the category of crimes against Dark Magic regulation … You have heard it all before, haven't you?'

Draco stopped, waiting to be proven right. He found it hard to believe that Potter wouldn't consult his bookworm friend on this matter.

'Yes. Hermione did some search.' Potter sighed in frustration, a lock of raven hair drifting over his eyes. 'It's not right. I'm not saying people should go to Azkaban for handling Dark Magic. There're good causes… the justifiable ones. But we shouldn't have to wait for someone to get hurt – the law should be proactive, not reactive.'

'That, too, is often the way,' said Draco wearily. He suppressed a yawn, sliding further down on the bed. 'Who knows, now you have a house of suspects, it might… turn a corner…'

'You look knackered,' said Potter. 'Why don't you take a nap? I'd be fine on my own – '

' – Ok… wake me in one hour,' said Draco, his voice weakened by tiredness. With his eyes closed, he added, 'a word of advice, Potter. Sleuth with caution – this kind of lifestyle, people get edgy. If you poke in the wrong place, they'd call in favours… They won't be afraid to go over your head and mine.'

* * *

><p>Harry didn't know what possessed him to stand there observing the man's chest rising and falling under a blanket, whose features softened against dark pillows. Fettered memories rushed, stirring in him, he was nineteen again at a lull –<p>

He turned on his heel and walked away. Malfoy must think him a prude. It wasn't the sex toys that spooked him. He had seen those before and known what they were used for. There were a few things he wasn't going to think about now: everything had to be excessive in this crazed place, so much so even sex toys came in dozens, or a certain peppery blonde who was sleeping in bed, or the level of punishment in his case wasn't proportionate to the severity of the crime. Who said life was boring after Voldemort?

_xxx_

By six o'clock the hall was getting busy, as decidedly overdressed guests arrived in pairs, groups, through the door to glitz and shine. There were enough floating rounds of champagne and wine to make any dispirited souls lighten up. He was anticipating a grand, formal dinner to go with the prodigality. If all those Ministry functions he had to attend were anything to go by, he'd sit in the same spot stiffly, staring down fancy cutlery he never quite knew which one to use, and his cravat tied so tight as nearly to have the air supply cut off. But then there he was seated between Malfoy and a chatty girl named Lotty or Letty. The air was alive with music and laughter; a gramophone lookalike object was playing party music – curiously he wondered if the effect was magically duplicated.

On the next table a sumptuous buffet was set up, grilled meat, jumbo shrimp, spiced baked ham, salads, exotic delicacies, at least three different kinds of desert, all laid out on gleaming silver platters with reverent artistry. He just had a taste of ostrich brisket and found that it was not so different from beef, except it didn't have fat marbling in the meat. Most people showed lesser interest in food. Dirty plates hadn't disappeared from the table, already they moved about with crystal glasses in their hands, busy getting better acquainted.

In dress robes of black velvet, Flint sat at the head of the table dourly. He wasn't particularly sociable for a host; Harry thought scarcely that Flint came rather close to one of those eccentric characters straight out of the plays Hermione loved. For what purpose might Flint hope to achieve by having many people under his roof but only to behave like he could do with a Cheering Charm? Occasionally he smiled at a blonde woman to his right, flashing his even teeth. Yet a revel went whirlingly on, and the invited conducted themselves as though they had long since accepted their host on being detached.

'Mind you,' said Charlotte, which would make her Lotty, in a soft, purring voice. 'Some girls are just silly – won't leave London. They say, why go to a house in the dull country. And I tell them, good money and huge wine cellar…'

Harry listened rather than talked. The girl certainly didn't need anyone to play devil's advocate; within minutes, he had found out that she was hired by Tomas Riders, who owned Whizz Hard Books, one of her regulars, enjoyed sharing her with other men... Before he knew it, her small hand found its way to his forearm and started to trace a path provocatively. She was pretty alright but too much paint on her face washed off any real expressions. Thankfully Riders called her; she gave Harry a flirtatious smile and wandered off.

'… Wow, she did say her "daddy" like to watch,' muttered Harry, speaking more to himself than Malfoy. 'He looks too young to be into that sort of thing.'

'The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,' said Malfoy shrewdly, 'rumours had it – his old man was into anything reprehensible.'

'How'd you know this kind of stuff?' asked Harry, flummoxed.

'Words do travel,' said Malfoy, regarding Harry as if he was a queer little thing that was amusive.

And that was not all. He looked around at the faces of the people, some of which he recognised from newspapers; apparently he was wrong about not knowing anyone besides Malfoy and Flint. Zacharias Smith just walked in with a tall man, medium built, dark brown hair, in his early-thirties.

'What's he doing here?' said Harry dryly, keeping his head low.

Smith was an unfriendly ghoul who remained to be pushy and insensitive after the war. Upon receiving above average N.E.W.T results, he applied for a position with Hit Wizard. When he was turned down, he launched a public protest by running his mouth to everyone cared to listen – how unfair it was for the Ministry to play favourites blatantly, 'Harry Potter and his friends were accepted with no N.E.'.

'Beats the hell out of me,' replied Malfoy, in an icy tone. 'The man with him is Lucien Beauvais – a French Diplomat, supposedly high up in the Ministry there… What a drag! That little prick is still alive and breathing – '

' – a wart – '

'Excuse me?' hissed Malfoy.

' – Ron always said he was a wart – '

' – for once, he might be right about that,' said Malfoy in a hushed voice, the loathing on his face, however, was loud and clear, and, strangely, Harry thought it rather served Smith right.

'What did he do to piss you off?' asked Harry curiously.

'Oh, where do I begin?' said Malfoy, now cutting the meat on his plate furiously, like it was somebody's imaginary neck. 'He has the tendency – makes people want to rearrange his face – constantly – '

'I think you're excused for that,' said Harry, not realising this might be the first time he ever conceded anything Malfoy had said.

'Good heavens!' a booming voice carried through the hall. Casual innuendos and small talks forgotten on the spot, heads turned vehemently toward the disturbance as the late arrivals came into view, two men and their companions of whom gathered around Flint. The wizards looked familiar; Harry couldn't place their faces at the snap of his fingers. A fair guess would be that he might know them from school that Hogwarts being the only Wizarding Institution in the country and all. After a momentary stillness, the dinner had resumed its rhythm while one of the two wizards slunk off, now approaching fast.

'I don't believe it,' he squealed, hitting Malfoy on the shoulder playfully. 'Old chap, fancy meeting you down here – '

' – Pucey, there's no need to be dramatic…' said Malfoy, with a long-suffering sigh. 'Would you care for some wine?'

Now Harry knew who this man was. Adrian Pucey was a chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch Team, later replaced by Warrington. Lee ridiculed them during a match that Flint had 'gone for size rather than skill'. The other wizard was probably Terrence Higgs, who played Seeker before Malfoy. He loosely recalled those two to be friends.

'Flint said you came with someone. I have to say hi… Oh yeah, Terry is attending to the ladies – ' Harry reached for a plate of dessert laced with unknown fruit, avoiding the knowing looks Pucey kept throwing at them. Having stiffed the red wine appreciatively, Pucey then announced, 'Burgundy Grand Cru '96 – err, not bad… With Zabini married and unavailable this year, we get you. It's not a complete loss after all – '

' – Pansy is in that delicate way,' said Malfoy flatly.

' – uh, the happy couple, always smitten at the beginning – ' Pucey began, in a sing-a-long voice, ' – until it was all dry and sour. Never mind the bollocks… Who is this?' He asked, pointing at Harry with his glass.

'Oh, Pucey, meet Leo,' said Malfoy, with a wink. His alias rolled off Malfoy's tongue, so natural, like honey melting from the comb.

'Leo… and?'

'Just Leo,' said Harry quickly, feeling heat rise to his face behind the mask for what might be the hundred millionth time that day. How the heck would he know about rent boys? Having never met anyone made the kind of living as to which he was assumed, he couldn't have been putting forward a very convincing personation. Uneasily Harry glanced at Malfoy, who was adjusting the sleeve of his robes, looked back with a calm, steady gaze.

'Uh huh, I see,' said Pucey gleefully, downing the wine in one, although Harry hadn't the foggiest what he was cheerful about. 'Listen, I'd love to stay and chat but the wives are getting antsy over there… Poor Terry! Why don't we sit down for tea tomorrow? Elevenses?'

'They brought their wives?' said Harry, bewildered. He couldn't decide which was worse: cheating on the wife or cheating with the wife watching, literally.

'Yeah, some couples like to party together,' said Malfoy slyly, 'in more ways than one.'

Looking sharp and refreshed in dress robes of dark green, Malfoy never put his glasses back on again since they got here. Women leered at him through batting eyelashes, puttering around them for his attention, like basking butterflies, wings out-stretched to absorb heat, or in their case, they displayed for him. His face bore a vacant, haughty, bored expression apathetic to the surroundings. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd say it was an act to lure potential dates, which, Patrick, another young trainee in his division, often claimed to be doing despite it never worked for him.

They socialised, or at least that was what Malfoy called it. Harry rather thought they were drifting through a buzzing crowd, making themselves the centre of speculation; people parted before them, drawing back and tipping out whispers, at the same time he was presented with a real who's who of the Wizarding World. Malfoy shrugged at their questions, occasionally favouring him teasing smiles – Harry didn't know what else to call those, grey eyes gazing over, pale lips quirked at the corner, he hated his role – he was Malfoy's possession, a plaything, what Malfoy bought for pleasure. Most men shared bawdy jokes at Malfoy's expense, while giggling girls watched them, their eyes bright with curiosity.

Some of them did more than that. Agnes Talbot, a very attractive heiress whose day job was to raise funds for orphans, took the seat next to Malfoy after Pucey, and even Harry, who never paid much attention to the likes of rich and famous, had heard her name due to the charity events her foundation organised for the Ministry. A girl like her should have her pick of boyfriends, yet she attended _orgies_. Twice Malfoy had lifted her hand from wherever it was, placing it back on the table, during which she wore a gullible expression, marched in and demanded to know how come she wasn't informed of Malfoy's attendance, and he brought a masked man nonetheless.

As evening wore on, laughter was easier minute by minute. Pretty girls wandered among the male guests – if they were professional, Harry wouldn't be a good judge at that. But it seemed that any of them could be stopped and groped by men. Avery Hawksworth, the English Quidditch Captain, had grabbed a passing girl and nuzzled her barely covered breast minutes ago. This was a far cry from his mates chasing girls in a pub. Every party's one annoying guest got multiplied many times over. The kind of behaviour could get someone tossed out at a party was tolerated here, if not encouraged. An afterthought came to him: what an idiot he had been to suggest Susie coming here, be pawed by strange men – she was never cut out for this, and as bizarre as it sounded, at least he was left alone because he wasn't a girl.

A clapping sound suddenly carried through wild, drunken noises. Flint had risen from his seat, held out a hand and motioned for the raving crowd to be quiet.

'I can't stand speeches so I'm gonna keep this short,' he said blandly, 'for those of you who have been here, you know the drill. If you haven't, well, how difficult is it to find a place to rut…'

Laughter rose all around. Flint paused and gazed over the blonde woman next to him, who wore a white mask with green feathers. Clearing his throat, he continued, 'enjoy yourselves and nothing illegal in my house – the only rule if there is any. I'm retiring for the evening now – be damned if you disturb me.'

'Hear, hear,' many laughed once again, raising their glasses to mid-air.

Following his lead, guests started heading back to their rooms. Harry stayed close to Malfoy as they joined other guests streaming up the staircase. He tried to ignore the tightness in his stomach that had been there since last week, and for the same amount of time he kept telling himself he'd fine, watching strange people having sex wasn't his regular job requirement, but he wouldn't be the first law enforcement officer who had to brave the elements.

Off the landing and down a long corridor, Flint and his companion had reached their suite first and were in the process of closing the door behind them. Harry walked the rest of passage with no thought in his head except it was too early to be overset; there was a long night ahead.

_xxx_

Harry couldn't help glaring at the thin, almost transparent black robes Malfoy pulled out of the wardrobe. Men had to wear them or go stark, neither of which was particularly appealing to him.

'Maybe I should stay behind…' he said hesitantly, 'I can start interviewing household staff.'

'That's a new one,' said Malfoy, daring. 'Don't think I've ever heard that one before… passing alcohol and sex for house elves.'

Kingsley did ask him to observe their _activities_, Harry reasoned. He was NOT going because Malfoy mocked him.

A quick shower later, he made a point not to look at the mirror while putting on the bloody garment hastily. Then Harry took a pew in the sitting room, trying to focus on how his case figured in a giant jigsaw puzzle, from which each loose piece by itself was incomplete and meaningless. In trying to understand how the pieces fit, he needed to know more about those rich, idle people, whose privileged lifestyles didn't have a positive influence on their moral sentiments.

Dreading the thought, he entered the bedroom and, instantly, stopped in his tracks. Malfoy had slipped the towel bath robe off his shoulder, exposing a lean, toned frame wearing black box shorts, which looked identical to the one on Harry. Half stunned, half dazed, Harry swallowed hard. His eyes lingered over the startling contrast of pale, bare skin and the sheer fabric of robes. Malfoy peered into the mirror and their gazes met.

'I… I come to see if you're ready to go downstairs,' said Harry, a little out of breath. His head swam as he withdrew his eyes.

'Sit here,' Malfoy instructed, directing his attention to a stool in front of the dresser. 'One last thing to do… Close your eyes.'

Feeling disorientated, Harry got on without objection. As hard as it was for him to accept, in a house where forms and norms defied social conventions, he was the one odd tone, terribly in danger of sticking out like a sore thumb; the quicker he complied with what Malfoy asked, the sooner he could make some kind of progress. While his head buzzed like a beehive, a cold tip brushed over his eye lids, again and again.

What the hell…

'Stay put, unless you rather look like a racoon,' said Malfoy warningly, one hand pressing Harry down.

'What are you doing? I'm not wearing make-up – ' blustered Harry.

'Don't you want to look the part… Leo?' said Malfoy briskly.

It was a lost argument. What did he care anyway? He'd be a sad clown with eyeliner and a mask in a swanky house. Surely worse things happened at sea.

_xxx_

'Remember you me own a favour,' said Agnes Talbot huskily, and her tone told everyone passing through the landing exactly what kind of favour it might be.

'Miss Talbot – ' Malfoy began, looking over several people standing at the bottom of the stairs. 'While it is all beyond flattering, perhaps this conservation should not be had… here.'

'Of course,' she said, her voice dipping into its lower register, 'I'm just saying, Kitty and I get terribly lonely at night. We'd be delighted to have company…'

Clinging to her arm, a petite brunette gave a might purr at that. Kitty, whose name was a dead giveaway, was poured into skin-tight black lace from head below; completing the look, she wore a fluffy, furry collar and furry cat ears headband on her head.

Miss Talbot slid both hands up to cup Kitty's breast, thumbs spiralling over perky nipples, right in an open hallway, with people milling about. However, the murmuring words that escaped Kitty's lips were not cries of distress. Smiling enticingly, she said to Malfoy, 'You can bring your _Innocent_… It took some discipline before my Kitty was up to scratch. She's a good pet now. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from her.'

She bent and bit the upper swell of Kitty's left breast to prove her point. Kitty made a squeaky noise, but endured without breaking away. Talbot bobbed her head up, inspecting her handy work through the lace.

Harry's fist tightened to a ball: he wasn't sure what he had witnessed was every bloke's dream or nightmare. Agnes Talbot had flaming red hair, curled into soft, big waves, and a figure that could make any men's blood boil, slim but plump in the right places. For all that prettiness, those big blue eyes were uncannily cold. Call him small-minded or worse, helping the poor and keeping human pets just didn't flow in one sentence.

'I found myself taking a liking to the _untutored_ those days,' said Malfoy, evenly. 'We'll see. Not tonight.'

His hand touched Harry's spine lightly and it felt, oddly, like a supportive gesture. They'd reached the end of hallway at that point. The little exchange didn't go unnoticed. Someone nearby, who was anxious to assuage Talbot's disappointment, inserted himself in the mass as he stepped forward, his arm wrapped around a leggy brunette. 'Eric Wright at your service, Madam,' he declared, excited with triumph. 'I'm very fond of kitties. You're more than welcome to have a go at Abbey.'

Talbot didn't look very upset. Smiling smoothly, she said to the increasing crowd, now stopped before a massive set of golden doors, 'shall we go in?'

_xxx_

Unlike other parts of the house, this room had presented an obscure homogeneity, which in some ways resembled a fancy Muggle bar. Large daybeds stood in shadow against the wall, most of them different in styles, long bolster pillows and cushions piled up on every single one of them; red curtains draped over a white round sofa, directly under a lamp with upside down shade that was casting dim light.

Ron would be thrilled to have seen pretty girls lounging around in lingerie, jewels sparking on their bodies and lace suspenders in place to hold up stockings. At the moment there was no allegedly imminent wild sex going on yet; guests seemed to be waiting for the tide to turn, some continued to drink in more intimate setting, whispering in their companions' ears while others roved from one bed to another for conversation.

Having settled on a daybed, Malfoy was rapping a silver bucket with his wand; cracking noises leaked out and ice tubes flew to the bottom of glasses. Reaching forward he waved his wand over his shoulder; a bottle of Firewhisky, two glasses, and a huge platter of chocolate soared gracefully on to the side table.

'Have a drink,' he said, 'and try not to look so forlorn. People will speculate.'

Harry picked up a chocolate, determined not to stare at Malfoy in his current posture, by bending of the spine, his waist stuck out and unwittingly set Harry's nerves tingling. Malfoy couldn't have known about the thing, Harry's _thing_, albeit Harry was well aware what others might call it. Fetish sounded solemn and reminded him other negative words such as obsession, excessiveness and peculiarity. His favourite body part on another person wasn't that big of a deal. He wasn't obsessed. It was simply something that he found pleasing to the eye, if, of course, such part was nice to look at. He never told anyone, not even Ginny. By hook he felt putting it into words ruined the fantasy a little.

He had come to know more than he heartily desired when it came to other people's preferences, a result of six years living in boys' dormitory, and another six years working in predominantly male environment. Rhetoric of which men gabbed when they got together and had a few to drink could be enlightening, sometimes over-sharing: take Seamus, who was a notorious breast man and not ashamed to be one; Williamson liked long legs, although what he imagined doing with those if he ever had the chance was one of those things Harry listened and blocked; Neville was fond of expressive eyes, if Harry recalled correctly, his exact words were: _'Don't you just love to see your reflection in that person's eyes, changing, mixed with emotions…_' and Ron, to this day Harry was deeply grateful that he had fled the scene just in time to avoid Ron's revelation, so that he could talk to Hermione without blushing seven ways to hell.

If anything, from those half-arsed incoherent conversations he gathered, a fixation over a nonsexual part of the body didn't necessarily involve that person's significant other, and was a harmless fascination that would only be kinky if it was made out to be that way.

That belief had come crushing down so fast before he could scream 'crazy'. His _thing_ had been an isolated entity. He had seen plenty of naked men in Quidditch shower rooms, and Ministry staff rooms, some men were better looking than others without clothes; that much he could tell. But he liked soft breasts and shapely hips. There was no sounding explanation for the urges he was having: to run his tongue over the outlines of sharp shoulder blades, trace every muscle reflex below the skin on that fair back, which looked impossibly smooth.

His stupid head was telling him weird stuff. Malfoy had refined bone structure. So the fuck what? It didn't mean that Harry had to find him attractive. Imagine what that git would've said if he found out even the teeny tiny bit of things Harry had in mind during last half an hour. Harry could almost see it; pale eyebrows shot to the air, the corner of his lips twisted into a mean sneer, and Malfoy would say, '_have you finally gone potty? All this time I thought it was just that unfortunate surname…_'

'It's early,' remarked Malfoy, 'wickedness is yet to come.'

Harry said nothing. With forced concentration, he let his gaze wander slowly and deliberately about the faintly lit room in search for Miguel Rodriguez, whose name came up in the earlier investigation because of the connection to Madrid. Despite the living large lifestyle, his family had been on the brink of financial ruins. His presence might be unrelated but Harry had never been big on coincidences. He found Rodriguez a few beds away, busy fondling a petite blonde. Harry made a note to keep an eye on this man.

Shortly afterwards there came a loud whirring noise as red curtains snapped open, unveiling the centrepiece: a naked young woman was tied to a round flat sofa beneath her, long blonde hair sprawled out on padded white leather with what seemed to be a deep stitch lining; red silk twined around her wrists, ankles, and tightly wrapped to conceal her breast and lower torso. Yet she lay so peacefully, while florescent lights shined like so many long bright beams, bouncing on her skin.

The atmosphere was abuzz with shadowy figures laughing and pointing at the latest happening to which they had been waiting for. Harry took a sip of his Firewhisky, swooshed it in his mouth, and swallowed as he felt a rush of excitement, and surrealism so quaintly assorted, as if he'd become an audience of some big-budgeted porn movie. Before his engagement, Seamus invited Harry and Ron to the flat he shared with Lee, as he put it, to have an educational night. So they got drunk and sampled Seamus's extensive collection of porn. It was hilarious at the time.

'Draco, my dear, what a surprise!' said a woman's voice not far. Harry smelt a whiff of feminine perfume, rich, floral, awakening him to awareness.

'Mrs. Goldman,' said Malfoy, leaning down to kiss her extended hand. 'I hope the surprise isn't an unpleasant one.'

'Oh, dear, you know how I loathe being called that. Remind me of my sorry late husband… simply dreadful!'

Even here, in the middle of a flourishing _orgy_, pageantry of pleasantries was preserved. The newcomer gave a little gurgle of laughter while Malfoy invited her to sit down for a drink. It amazed Harry, the sheer breadth of Malfoy's social connections: she was one of those people Harry recognised earlier, Victoria Goldman, a singer and composer, and sometime play writer.

She wore long, pale blue robes over her undergarment, yet there she sat, postured like a queen as through she wasn't facing two barely dressed men, as through the low neckline and the silt up the side left much to be imagined. Harry had kept his gaze above her neck, sticking to what he considered polite: not to leer at women's bosom, no matter how generously endowed it was. Rubies and diamonds gleamed at her throat, ears, half pinned long black hair. Her skin was flawless, except for the understated sophistication that she carried off would only come from experiences and wisdom.

Most people – mainly those who weren't paid to be here treated Harry just like he suspected – they'd only speak to Malfoy even if he was standing inches away. Why would they act any different? He was someone of no importance. Harry really couldn't care less. He didn't come here to become one of them; plus, being invisible had its benefits. He overheard plenty dialogue when they weren't noticing. Mrs. Goldman was a little different. Not the usual nose up in the air type. She was beautiful, off course; all female guests were. She wouldn't be here otherwise, however, opposite to the contrary, she addressed him directly.

'You seem to have me at a disadvantage,' she said to Harry while offering them cigarettes, her voice cultured and polite, a rare occurrence. 'I don't know you name.'

Mrs. Goldman smiled at Harry encouragingly. Malfoy took one cigarette from her and lit up the one in her hand with the tip of his wand. Upon being told Harry didn't smoke, she chuckled softly, turning to Malfoy. 'Where did you find this lovely young man? Gratifyingly black hair and eyes like jade, the eyeliner is a splendid touch… Resplendent, that's the word – you sure know how to pick them…'

Although how she could tell, given the lighting, was a wonder.

'Don't I just?' said Malfoy, looking very pleased with himself.

Harry, on the other hand, felt a hot prickle of embarrassment. Knowing the pretence to behold was one thing, actually going through with it was quite another. Adding insult to his less than brilliant performance, Malfoy had no hang-up whatsoever. Fretfully he ate another chocolate; the tingling sweetness calmed his nerves, at the same time, their voices drifted toward him: '_You know where, Victoria, a proper witch shouldn't ask such things…_' and then: '_Urgh, whatever you say, dear…_'

'How did you know each other?' asked Harry carefully, after Malfoy bluffed his way through her questions.

'It's inconsequential,' said Malfoy immediately.

'I beg to differ,' she cried, her rouge lips pouting. 'Draco fell into a nettle patch. I smothered Star Grass Salve all over him. Poor thing, right down to his birthday suit, and the screams – ' She stopped and gave Malfoy a very sensual smile to imply that the rest went without saying.

'I was seven years old,' Malfoy's voice was positively sheepish.

From that moment Harry decided he liked Victoria Goldman.

Across the room immoderate indulgence had gone underway. Most notably men and women lined up by the white sofa in the center, hovering over the blonde girl with their wands out. The scene looked too suspicious. Harry moved to get a better view, but then what he saw was worrying; they were circling the tip of their wands over various parts of her body. Sleek silk rustled at every turn she squirmed; the whole room roared with her cries. Of pleasure or of torture? Was she cowering away from those people?

'What are they doing to her?' asked Harry, bluntly.

Suddenly both Malfoy and Mrs. Goldman had gone quiet.

'Oh my, you really are innocent,' Mrs. Goldman said gently after a minute, a pondering expression hitched on her face. 'Never fear, dear, she's not in pain – probably exaggerating to keep her protector interested.'

Harry's mind raced; he understood his mistake.

'She seems to be enjoying it,' he said lamely.

'Because she's been paid very handsomely for her trouble,' Malfoy's voice came low near his ear, almost a husky whisper. 'It's our little game. I like it when he acts all naïve and… uncrafty – makes playing _Titillando_ much more fun.'

'How intriguing,' she said, laughing softly, 'I can see you fascination though.'

Harry stared across at her, but there was no telling in her perfect aplomb, and he couldn't believe how careless he had been. He felt a jolt of anxiety as Mrs. Goldman bid them goodnight, steered away by none other than Anthony Goldstein, who worked at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Brooding, Harry dropped his hand to the chocolate platter.

'It'd be fine,' said Malfoy, eyes fixed on the even bigger smoke-ring he just blew out. 'She can't know it's you. There is no way. She'd think I hired someone to impersonate you before she thinks it's you, if it comes to that…'

'I guess so,' murmured Harry, chewing wrathfully. He so needed to step up in this; not knowing the rule wasn't a good excuse to fail at a game. 'But I didn't expect to see Goldstein here. Isn't she... older?'

'Old enough to be his mother,' said Malfoy, his lips quirked into a sardonic smile. 'Ironical, isn't it? Good and proper, upstanding employee of the Ministry besotted with older women in secret.'

'Are you mad he just pretended he didn't know you?' asked Harry, pegging away at the likely reason behind the rash.

Malfoy grunted derisively. 'Why would I? It's not like he acknowledges me at work,' he said, 'I don't see him having a rapid change of heart simply because he saw me at an orgy.'

'Doesn't that annoy you?'

'Trying to read me now?' said Malfoy, and he flitted closer, lying on his side with one hand under his head. 'Run out of interesting things to study already? That's a shame. Those girls over there are just getting warmed up.'

Harry had troubles understanding what Malfoy had said. Words filtered through the thickening fog in his head as his gaze fell on Malfoy's mouth: curved, pink, a little wet from drinking, _delectable_. What would that mouth taste like? Probably chocolate, Firewhisky and tobacco, and it occurred to him, he never kissed lips with that combination of flavours. He didn't know how he managed to tilt his head toward where Malfoy was indicating.

'Oh,' he breathed out. At the centre of the room, the blonde girl was freed from the constraints, now licking another girl's red nipple; both of them not wearing a stitch, and the blonde must have sucked hard since the other girl cupped her own breast, lifting the nipples to the hungry mouth, her eyes glazed, her face flushed. He could smell the exotic scent of their arousal permeate the air. It was an on-going show. Harry had never seen two girls playing with each other off-screen, but so many things happened today were foremost; it was pointless to keep counting.

The blonde kissed a trail down soft flesh, until her head was buried between parted legs. She was on her knees, and from Harry's angle, he could see shimming blonde hair glowing in a soft light, her tongue lapping eagerly at her friend, who was moaning prettily. When she rolled her head to the side and pushed her finger into that slick slit, the recipient threw her head back on the sofa, writhing and sighing in pleasure, long red hair spilled over her belly. Harry's face burned; he shifted uncomfortably, hoping with that, the bulge at his front would be less obvious –

'Ah, you really do have a thing for redheads,' he heard Malfoy hollowly. The voice had a cold menacing undertone which Harry didn't appreciate. A pleasant little thrumming he felt in his loins had nothing to do with the hair colour; for Merlin's sake, he was a normal, red-blooded, heterosexual male.

'What's wrong with that? Don't you?' snapped Harry, pointedly not looking at Malfoy. He couldn't, not just yet.

'No, especially not the frivolous ones,' said Malfoy, back to the irritating lazy drawl of his.

Of course the git had to take the piss out of him! He had been stupid not to expect this, Harry thought angrily as he swung around to retort, against his better judgment. That smug, arrogant prick – nobody asked his opinion. If Harry wanted to decry everything Malfoy represented, he could go on making a long list; it was bad enough to be stuck in this fantasy of life some rich people led to fulfil their twisted needs, he wasn't seeking amiability, which would be hoping for the impossible, but was being civil really too much to ask – Malfoy's face was unreadable, blank, free of raffish enjoyment. He watched the body of amber liquid in his glass intently, paying no attention to anything else.

It had long struck Harry as more than a little curious that a single snide comment from Malfoy had always been enough to set him off on retaliations both tedious and foolhardy. People said Malfoy had mellowed over the last a few years, Harry wouldn't know because during all that time they ignored each other, before he realised, Malfoy had acquired a new skill to rattle him without appearing to be trying…

And honestly Harry was in no condition to argue what he liked, with whom it might concern.

Which was a terrifying thought; he kept his eyes on the progressing scene with no other purpose than to stop them from drifting to Malfoy's lips. The murmuring voices came louder and more ruptured, as the guests marvelled at those flashes of desperate little screams uttered by one of the girls, the one being pleasured, she arched her little round butt high off the sofa, face flushed, moaning in earnest, then she began to wail, her voice cracked and hoarse.

'Oh, Susan, keep doing that, KEEP DOING THAT, you're so good – '

In hastening to comply Susan slid another finger in, her thumb stroking the swollen clit. 'Are you close? Lizzie, come for me…' she said, pumping her fingers in and out.

Lizzie was flailing all over the place. Rocking against Susan's fingers, she raised her hands to squeeze her puffy nipples. Susan's rhythm increased as did the urgency of her task. The rustling of a crowd grew restless with anticipation for what was about to come.

'Oh god, oh god,' Lizzie slumped back as her orgasm blew, her breasts jiggling, her hips swaying. Sweat shined on her naked skin. She groaned deeply, riding out the last wave of ecstasy that washed over her body.

It wasn't over yet. Susan climbed up onto the sofa, and then, slowly she lowered herself upon Lizzie's face while Lizzie opened her legs wider, displaying her glistening slit in plain sight. Harry averted his gaze; it was kind of rude to stare at a strange woman's vagina, maybe he was a hypocrite to think so after having watched them, but that's the issue right now. He could feel himself becoming more and more aroused, and Malfoy was sitting way too close for his comfort, all in which a perfect receipt for disaster.

'I need to calm down,' he croaked.

A pungent scent called lust filled the room. Everywhere he looked a tangle of bodies sprawled over the pillows, hands rubbing naked flesh in the shadow. The sounds of moaning and nuzzling echoed, threatening to overtake his senses.

'You should go easy on the chocolate,' said Malfoy quietly, 'it has _Damiana_ – can be too simulating for someone who's not used to it.'

_Think of something unpleasant, think of something unpleasant fast._

Merlin might have heard Harry's prayer, on a bed occupied by Smith and the French man, Smith was on all fours with his arse in the air, a longish stick inserted into his rear, a _wand_. Harry blinked in shock. At first he thought the correction potion had started to wear off, Smith-the-wart then bucked against the aggressive ministration as the wand plunged deep, a hand fisting his rod roughly. Dumbfounded, Harry discovered that improper use of magical instrument had numbing effect on his erection.

'Dami – what?' asked Harry, feeling very disturbed but much reassured. He couldn't have been attracted to men.

'Damiana, also known as _Turnera_ _diffusa_,' said Malfoy, 'it's been claimed to increase libido.'

'That can't be legal!' said Harry, and his tone hardened. Suddenly he found the fact that he might've been drugged revolting.

'You can buy it from any decent Apothecary,' said Malfoy noncommittally. 'It's a natural and _legal_ aphrodisiac, and there are only trace amounts in the chocolate. Pixie dust would be another matter…'

Casting _Muffliato_ at a flick Harry turned to Malfoy as the conversation had wandered into a matter he couldn't overlook. Pixie dust affected dopamine system and was frequently associated with hyperarousal and hypersexuality, in addition to its high potential for abuse and addition. On the scale of controlled substances it was classified XXXX by the Ministry, dangerous and required specialist knowledge to handle, which made possession for social or recreational use illegal.

'Are you saying people could be using Pixie dust here?' said Harry quelling.

'I don't know,' grumbled Malfoy, waggling his glass with a clatter of ice tubes. Then he took his sweet time in refilling.

'You don't know or you won't tell me?' demanded Harry. The inside of Malfoy's left arm caught his attention, where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin, now looked like an abstract painting instead of a faded scar. Harry could swear he saw a cluster of petals.

'I don't know if they're using,' said Malfoy, frowning. 'It's possible but what are you gonna do? Arrest people for it like the big bad _Auror_ you're? Last I checked, your division isn't responsible for enforcing regulations of controlled substances, not to mention your cover will be blown in ten seconds…'

'So, you suggest I let it go?' Harry asked, partly vexed because he knew Malfoy was right.

'Um, if I was in a suggesting mood,' said Malfoy. 'I'd suggest you use your discretion wisely. You're not required to report suspected abuse. It's your decision whether you choose to do so at the end of your stay, by which time you may uncover _who_ is using, with your case intact.'

There was a line between benefit of doubt and criminal conspiracy. Harry studied Malfoy's face, who didn't seem intoxicated at all after drinking nearly half bottle of Firewhisky, searching for signs of scheming, and the question he had been about to ask – about if Malfoy was trying to influence Harry's decision for an ulterior motive – died in his throat. Little though he wanted to, he had no choice but to abide: Malfoy had spun a rather convincing line of reasoning.

'How'd you get to know so much about law?'

'The original statues were issued in Latin,' replied Malfoy, raising himself a little higher on the pillows. 'They make great bedtime reading.'

Yeah right!

With arms folded Harry sat straight, in an attempt to take his mind off this enigma of a man. When was anything involving Draco Malfoy ever easy? On Astronomy Tower he thought Malfoy was going to accept Dumbledore's offer of protection; at Malfoy Manor he had thought for sure that Malfoy would identify him, Ron and Hermione; after the war there was a time he almost believed they could put aside their differences, in all events none of his conjectures had turned out accordingly.

Harry peered around the flaring room, jostled by drunken men and naked, willing women. He figured that now was as good a time as any to go back to their suite since he needed to think, and form a plan. Tomorrow he would speak to the house elves discreetly and explore the secret passages. Sex was enticing but he doubted that continue to spy on a roomful of suspects going at it would help his case to a great extent.

As if on cue, Harry spotted Pucey, Higgs and their wives, their bodies entwined side by side and in truth, after spending some time in the room, he had become accustomed to the scent of rich perfume and other earthy smells, and within the cries of encouragement all around, Harry was convinced that he couldn't be more shocked. But the two men were currently engaged in a series of passionate long kisses, with mouths agape, tongues jabbing and tangling.

A rasping sound escaped Harry's throat when the dark-haired wizard, Pucey gave an abrupt thrust of his hips, which left no room for misinterpretation of what had taken place; Harry knew the moment of penetration as he saw one. Any men would. The man beneath him broke the lip-lock with one of the women, who then returned to kissing and touching the other wife. Harry was too stunned to look away. Like a man in trance he watched narrow hips slapping hard, their movement vicious and desperate.

It was very, _very_ confusing.

'Uh – ' he began, his mouth dry. 'Are they… how…'

'Too extreme?' whispered Malfoy.

'I didn't – ' Harry tried again, lowering his voice. 'I didn't think they were…'

Words failed him. But if Malfoy dared to laugh at him, he would be throwing punches so fast…

'Urgh, three is a crowd, four is a party,' said Malfoy plainly, 'together they make one big happy dysfunctional family.'

'But they're married!' squeaked Harry, sounding utterly astonished.

Malfoy looked at Harry, pale eyebrows high and winged, as though he failed to make the connection. A minute or two later his face relaxed into an amused grin.

'It may be unconscionable to your middle-class morality…' he said softly, 'I can assure you – it's perfectly legal.'

Harry gave the man an incredulous look but inadvertently stared into a pair of grey eyes, dark and mercuric like the black lake at night, swiftly his earlier predicament returned as he found himself wanting to –

He needed to get out of there; a cold shower would be a capital idea –

Arms linked, Lizzie and Susan had stepped down from the sofa and raced over to their day bed. 'Mr. Malfoy,' the girls shrieked, giggling and batting their eyelashes. 'We want to join you and Leo for a little fun, if you will allow – '

'Is that so?' Malfoy made no effort to sit up, simply answered with a sly smile.

Meanwhile, Harry didn't know where to look. Those girls were as naked as the day they were born! Lizzie was slender and tall; she wore her fiery hair like the crown of glory, which her small waist, long legs and creamy complexion only served to emphasise, even her bush of red curls was left untouched. Susan was a petite girl with enormous, round breasts, her soft pink nipples standing proudly erect as she flashed Harry a sultry, suggestive smile.

'You've been having tête-à-tête with Leo for some while,' said Lizzie huskily, 'so we're here to offer our assistance – ' With that, she paused, biting her lower lip.

Harry caught his breath as Susan dropped her hand to his knee, started rubbing it.

If he had ever contemplated of having two women at the same time, he'd thought of it as a thing that merely could happen, some wild, unreal fantasy which he never planned to act on and definitely didn't involve Malfoy, or any man for that matter. People were watching. He could feel curious, prying glances coming from different directions. And Malfoy seemed to be considering; he tapped his chin, a calculating expression written over his face. Did propriety mean anything to these people?

What should he do? Could he turn down what Malfoy had consented? Would that raise suspicion?

'Sweet peas, what a thing you've asked,' Malfoy finally said to them, 'I will have you know that I'm rather dedicated.'

'Extra mouths and hands can't hurt – ' Susan purred, her hand now drawing circles on Harry's inner thigh.

'What do you say, Leo?' Malfoy whispered to his ear. '_Proper_ wizards never disappoint ladies.'

'No, wait – ' Harry slipped backwards to escape the wandering hands until there was nowhere to go, and his back pressed against hard, flat chest. Good lord! He had stumbled right into Malfoy's embrace. Harry froze.

'What's the matter?' said Malfoy, words soft in his mouth. 'Isn't this what you wanted?'

Like hell it was!

'I don't want to take part,' Harry hissed through gritted teeth, their faces inches away.

'Why the hell not? Saving yourself?' Malfoy whizzed back, in a voice barely audible. 'I'm touched.'

Face covered by the mask, Harry glared at Malfoy. Fury raced through him, turning his veins into fire. He seized the thin fabric under his hand and pulled Malfoy closer. He was going to give Malfoy a tongue-bashing until the slimy bastard saw sense. His case to be damned!

'You – '

Malfoy didn't resist as he held out his hands in a gestured of bemusement. To anyone else, they'd look like a pair of lovebirds nuzzling each other and whispering silly nothing. Malfoy's breath on Harry's ears made him tingle below. Suddenly he forgot everything he meant to say.

'You're not gonna say "no" to _fellatio_, are you?'

'What are you playing at?' said Harry, and the husky roll in his voice startled him.

'Do you see another way out of this? I don't. Unless you wanna tell them why – '

This had to be the worst idea of the century. He shouldn't even be thinking about it. No. He couldn't. Or could he?

'People can see.' Harry managed to speak, out of instinct, out of the last bit of common decency he had in him.

Grey eyes flicked, and then bed curtains dropped in a rustle. Heat raged over his skin as Harry found himself becoming inextricably aroused in the most uncomfortable situation. Whilst his own breathing laboured, he could smell the scent rising from Malfoy's body, fresh and warm, like sandalwood mixed with citrus lemons. He knew this because it was printed on the bottles near the bathtub, which he used on himself earlier.

Now he really had walked himself into this!

'I want you to take good care of Leo,' instructed Malfoy, as he turned to the girls. 'Put your clever mouths to good use while you're at it. I will see to your rewards tomorrow. But I don't want _it_ talked about. Is that understood?'

_For fuck's sake! _

'Of course, Sir,' Lizzie gave a wicked smile. 'Like it never happened.'

Susan giggled and nodded. Both of them reached for Harry; four hands dove under his robes and didn't stop until they brushed over his erection.

'Wow…' Lizzie whimpered. She fondled his balls with experienced hands, a saucy smile on her lips.

'What a delight!' Unfastening his fly Susan took up the cry. 'He's all hard and manly…'

_Yeah, I bet you say that to every man_, Harry thought bitterly.

'Sweetie,' Malfoy snarled. 'Get on with it.'

The reality of what was happening, of what went on in the little world behind the draped curtains, hit Harry as wet pressure tightened around his shaft. Even with all his efforts not to freak out, he felt a violent urge to fling himself sideways, away from the bed, out of the room, as far away from being serviced by girls who he met today as possible.

It was some form of madness. Behind him Malfoy remained motionless, a pale hand pressed flat against the mattress. Even Malfoy's bloody hand was winding him up. He was trembling, but what was going through Malfoy's mind? Despite the intense pleasure induced by two tongues and two warm, sucking mouths, anger welled up inside him, for Malfoy must be enjoying every second of his humiliation. Was this a show for him? Some perverted way to get off?

Then he felt sick.

Abruptly he turned, crushing his body weight onto Malfoy until their chests mashed together. Why should Malfoy get to be all composed and poised when he was in such a state? With the element of surprise on his side, he caught a full lip between his teeth and bit down, his arms wrapped tightly around Malfoy to prevent the man from getting away. Not a chance. Harry nipped hard.

A surly man's mouth shouldn't be this soft. He licked those lips hungrily, the lips that allured. Malfoy made a little sound, a sigh, and that drove Harry crazy. He took it as a hint and shoved his tongue into Malfoy's mouth. He tasted just like Harry thought, yet there was something hidden under chocolate, tobacco and Firewhisky, that he'd have to delve in deeper to find a distinctive extraordinary flavour. Malfoy assaulted Harry in the same way, his tongue fervent, his mouth bruising, giving Harry as good as he got.

Light-headed, Harry bucked his hips impatiently with each thrust of his tongue. Malfoy's hands came up, sinking into unruly, thick hair. Suddenly he broke the kiss, leaving Harry panting and disappointed.

'We'd like to be alone.'

Gilded voices roared but Harry was too busy taking gulps of air. His senses were filled to the brim; he had forgotten about those girls until their mouths went away.

'Get lost,' Malfoy ordered sharply, 'NOW.'

There were the noises of curtains opening and closing. Harry paid no heed. He heard that sighing sound again. His eyes fixed on a pale neck, never before he realised how sensuous and graceful the line of a throat could be. He trailed his mouth down that throat as he couldn't get the image out of his head, all that glorious white skin on a man. Malfoy stroke Harry's hair gently while his other hand reached down, long fingers curled around Harry's slick length.

Harry tugged the damn fabric. Malfoy's body was hot beneath his fingertips. It wasn't enough. He so badly wanted to touch the bare skin. Eyes closed, Malfoy bumped Harry hard and fast. Harry arched his back, thrusting into Malfoy's hand. Knowing that he was too close, a little more would have tipped him over the edge. He pressed a rough, hurried kiss, needing to feel those lips on him.

Then the world went dark, with him shivering and shouting into Malfoy's mouth.

* * *

><p>A few more words:<p>

1. _Explicare: _to unfold.

2. I found the line on the invitation from the Internet but somehow lost the origin. So I can't credit the author for it: it's not mine.

3. Mira: the name means wonderful.

4. _Titillando: _actual purpose unknown but it's in the tickling charm family.

That will be all for now! Dear Wendy, Harry wearing eye-liner is for you.

I love feedbacks. No pressure. I'm just saying!


End file.
